Contending with Darkness
by SporadicWriter
Summary: VB AU - What happens when the person you hate the most is the only one who can save your life? Bulma and Vegeta are forced to form a bitter alliance in order to gather the dragon balls for Lord Frieza. But is Frieza's game all it seems?
1. Chapter 1 - Day Zero

A/N - This is a new fic for me. I've been wanting to try an AU for absolutely ages, but didn't have a strong enough story idea. Now I do, and I'm totally excited to write it. I was watching Battle Royale the other day, and it really gave me this idea, using the characters from DBZ. It's influenced by a lot of things, as you will probably tell when you read it, but I hope that my own little, unique take on it takes your fancy. I want to leave it quite vague, 'cause there is a LOT of stuff going on in this and I don't want to give it away :D

Hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer - I do not own the majority of the characters in this story. Never have. Never will. As heartbreaking as this is, I've come to terms with the fact that they belong to Akira Toryiama, but I am borrowing them for a bit. Thanks, Akira, buddy ;)

**WARNING - THIS IS RATED M FOR A GOOD REASON. VIOLENCE AND SEX. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.**

**Basic Prologue - Bulma has been captured, her immediate memory erased. She is taken hostage with six other prisoners on-board Frieza's ship. She has no concept of time, but feels she has been prisoner for about a week. Bulma and the prisoners all have something in common, but what is it, and why is it so important to Frieza? **

* * *

Contending in Darkness

Chapter One

_The wallpaper was torn, peeling off in little curls, like overgrown fingernails. Her fingers traced them, pulling one of the loose curls and plucking it from the wall. The cupboards had been ransacked, clothes strewn across the floor, the once plush blue carpet, burnt, leaving an acrid smell in the air. It used to be her place of calm, of safety, and now she barely recognised it. Somehow, the adrenalin and fear lead her to that room, as if it had beckoned her._

_She caught sight of a photograph of her parents on the floor, the glass frame around it shattered. She bent down and carefully pulled the picture out, and stared at the image of her mother and father, his arm draped over her shoulder, her beaming face, contagious and making Bulma smile weakly as a tear trickled down her cheek._

_An explosion shook the room, throwing Bulma forward. She quickly crammed the picture into her back pocket and scrambled on her hands and knees across the floor. It wasn't long until the soul shattering screams followed, piercing her eardrums. She gasped and had to clamp her hands over her mouth, her heart racing in her chest._

_They were close by. Closer than they were before. She had to move, but couldn't. It was like her body had seized up in fear, unyielding to the desire to escape. Slowly, she found the energy to stand up, before frantically searching her room for somewhere to hide, when another explosion sounded, right below her feet on the ground floor. Plaster crumbled from the ceiling and the remaining sheet of glass in the window collapsed, sending tiny shards across the room._

_The pain was searing in her ears, a high-pitched drilling in her head. Was she deaf? The noise was unbearable, and she fell back to her knees, squinting at the room. The only place to go was under the bed, so she crawled over to it, inching under it, and pushing the broken bed boards out of the way. Then the footsteps came, and the low-rumbling voices, like the beginning of thunder. Their voices were drained out by the shrilling buzzing in her ears, so she couldn't understand what they were saying, but she knew that they were extremely close._

_They were in the next room._

_A cupboard crashing, followed by raucous laughter, forced her to cover her mouth from screaming. She wanted to scream. It was pressing in her throat, trying to get out, but she had to stop it. She swallowed as the voices drifted off down the corridor, her body muscles loosening slightly. They'd gone. Maybe they were convinced the area was vacant. Everyone else was dead. Everyone had been murdered by these creatures. Her friends, her family, her neighbors … the entire city had been slaughtered by these … monsters._

_As if a cube of ice was being trailed down her spine, Bulma froze when she saw two pairs of feet land in front of the bed. Her eyes widened, staring at their blood smeared shoes, and her will to breathe had vanished. The bed lifted and flew, crashing into the wall. She screamed, her throat dry and painful, and tried to run into the corner of the room, like a startled animal. But she was stopped, a hand gripping onto her shoulder, squeezing so hard, cracking her collar bone. The heat surged through her body. She turned to see their faces, but it was like they had been scratched out, as if someone had blotted ink all over them. She just saw a gleaming pair of teeth, the fangs glowing in the darkness, as they grinned, crushing the bones in her shoulder even more. She tried to scream again, but making any sound was impossible. Her mouth was locked open, unable to call for help, trapped as the darkness consumed her body, the depths of death clawing at her skin._

"Bulma. You need to wake up …"

The soft voice pulled her back to the surface, ripping her away from the deep crevices of her mind. She opened her eyes, and the sight of Chichi's warm eyes was all too familiar and comforting to her. The mattress she was lying on was damp with sweat again. These nightmares had been getting more vivid every night. Bulma sat up and gazed around at all the faces staring back at her, and she felt her skin tingle with embarrassment.

She put a hand to her forehead, rubbing her temples to soothe the relentless throbbing, and turned to Chichi, who sat there giving her a concerned frown. At the same time, she ignored the dull twinge of pain in her shoulder.

"You were screaming in your sleep again," Chichi said as she shifted on the rickety bunk bed.

Again, Bulma's eyes scanned the dank room, the prison they'd been held in. More like a pig pen. The foul smell of faeces and urine lingered in the air. There was a row of metal bunk beds, each prisoner either lying down on one, or sitting up and looking over at her, bemused, obviously from lack of sleep. Their weary, drawn faces from two weeks of malnutrition, making them look like zombies.

Bulma looked down at her torn Capsule Corp t-shirt and jeans. It was all too much to take in.

"I was … having that dream again," she whispered, drawing her knees up to her chest. She didn't care if it stopped the others from sleeping. At least they didn't have to see what she was seeing in her subconscious.

Chichi looked at the ceiling, as if it was going to give her the right words to help her friend. "Maybe it means something."

"I know what it means," a sharp, sarcastic tone shouted from the other side of the room.

They both looked over at the tall man, sitting up on his bed, his arms thrown behind his head, his brows knitted together. "It means you need to do us _all_ a favour, and shut the fuck up for once in your life. How about that?" He crossed his legs and settled back down onto the bed, closing his eyes.

That was Thomas. He was a highly skilled scientist and engineer for a large rival company based in England. She'd seen his face in the papers a few times, and heard about him in the news. In fact, Bulma hazarded a guess that everyone in the room was a scientist. Chichi was head of Capsule Corp in East city, known for building the first ship able to withstand one thousand gravitrons in space.

Over in the other corner was a pair of Namekians, or at least, she thought that was who they were. She'd briefly spoken to them, but their English wasn't very good, and she could barely communicate with them. They must have been extremely clever as well. All in all, there were four humans: herself, Chichi, Thomas and Vadim. All scientists. Two Namekians, and one very peculiar looking creature in the bed next to her. He was very reserved, had barely looked at anyone. He had blue skin, scaled like a fish, and eyes similar to that of a blue bottle fly. His teeth were razor sharp. She caught him whispering to himself a few times, baring his teeth when he noticed her staring at him. She didn't make any effort to get to know that guy. He'd most likely rip her throat out in a split second.

Sleep barely graced them, and the little sleep she got was flooded with nightmares, all too familiar nightmares, stuff that seemed to clear to be a dream.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remember the images, but as soon as she'd wake up, they'd fall deeper into the back of her mind.

The most terrifying thing was … no one knew how they got there. The last thing she remembered was having a barbecue with her friends and family, and then she woke up in this room, and had been there for a long time now. Seeing Chichi's face brought her to tears that day. She didn't know why.

The sound of water pattering on the floor from a loose pipe was drumming in her ears. She held her hands over them and lay back on the cold mattress.

"Bulma, are you going to be OK?" Chichi said, edging off the top bunk.

She nodded, keeping her eyes closed. Her stomach gurgled, the pain knotting in her abdomen. When was the last time she ate? It must have been at least a day ago. The food was rancid, like left over, three-day-old meat. Vadim found maggots in his a few days ago, and one of the Namekians was vomiting for hours. She could still smell the stale excrement on the walls.

The mattress shifted as Chichi climbed down, leaving Bulma alone with her thoughts. Whatever she had done in her life … she didn't deserve this. She was too young, too successful. Her life was heading in all the right directions, until now. Now she was trapped in a cell, awaiting, what, a call from some big gangsta or drug dealer? Some guy named 'Lord Frieza', anyway. Whoever this guy was, he didn't know who he was messing with, and as soon as she could find a way out, he would pay-

"Right ladies and gentlemen!" A loud, camp voice said, booming out of the speakers in all four corners of the room.

Bulma winced and a few others groaned and hissed. Not this guy again.

"You are all cordially invited to a meeting with none other than Lord Frieza himself. Isn't that exciting?"

There were shocked glances exchanged round the room. Bulma sat bolt up-right; her hands braced either side of the mattress.

"Some lovely men are going to come and escort you in a minute. Remember, chin up, and don't forget to smile," the voice said all too happily, and then disappeared.

The room—except the tapping of water drops—was deadly silent for a moment, as everyone, including the blue-skinned creature, sat looking at each other.

"I'm not going any-fucking-where. That Lord Frieza, whoever the fuck he is, can fuck off," Thomas said, crossing his arms and throwing himself back down onto his bed.

Vadim stood up, nervously shaking his hands out, as if ready to give a big speech. "I … need to get out of here … right now," he said, his Russian accent thick with every word.

The two Namekians, one hanging over the bed to see the other, were mumbling to each other, their eyes wide with fear.

"Chichi?" Bulma said, her hands shaking.

"Yeah?"

"What do we do?"

There was a long period of silence.

"We wait," Chichi said, gravely.

The huge metal doors of the cell swung open, crashing into the wall with a brain shattering clatter, knocking all the lights out. From beyond the pitch black, you could feel the panic rise, as the loose bed joints squeaked from people fumbling to get down.

Bulma gulped, the stomach acid gurgling, threatening to erupt, as she tried to get her eyes to focus in the darkness.

A bleaching light was cast from the empty doorway, and everyone winced.

"Right. I am leaving … right now. Come on everyone. You can see this. The door is open. We should leave …" Vadim said, pacing back and forth. "They would be in by now … They're not … Let's go." He bolted for the doorway, his thin frame surrounded by the glowing light, but he stopped. He stood stock-still, like a dear caught in the headlights of an enormous truck.

Bulma's heart pounded. She squinted in the shadowy darkness. "Vadim? What's wrong?"

Chichi screamed as Vadim's body dropped to the floor.

"What … the _fuck_?" Thomas yelled, jumping from his bed and heading to the door.

Bulma couldn't move again, like in her dreams. She'd completely frozen in time, only able to watch faint silhouettes of everyone, running around in the darkness.

It was a matter of seconds before Thomas was on the floor, unconscious. And just as Bulma found the use of her body, two dark figures came bounding towards her, sending her tumbling off the bunk bed, whacking the bottom of her back on the floor. She yelped in pain.

She looked up as one of the dark figures loomed over her.

"No. Stop," she shouted, as they pointed something in her direction.

Her body was too weak to move. All she could do was put her hand up, but as she did, she felt a sharp sting in her palm. Something had bitten her, something was _biting_ her. She pulled her hand towards her face, breathing heavily, trying to keep her eyes open. It looked like some kind of dart, or needle stuck deep into her skin. It hurt so much. Within a few seconds, she was being pulled into the darkness of her subconscious, the figure in front of her fading to black, like the end of a movie.

* * *

The sound of clapping brought Bulma back to consciousness. Her eyes fluttered open, almost blinded by the intensity of the light in the room. She instinctively clasped her palm, where the pain had come from, but there was nothing there. What the hell had just happened? Where was she?

"Bravo!" A raspy, feminine voice cheered.

There was a lot of groaning, as Bulma slowly sat up and took in the sight of the grand room and fancy decor. What the-

"What the _fuck_ has just happened?" Thomas grumbled, rubbing the back of his head, his blonde hair dishevelled.

One of the Namekians was up and shaking the metal bars of their containment.

Another prison …

Bulma started when she felt someone grab her shoulder. She turned around to see Chichi groggily pulling herself towards her.

"I must say, you put up a marvellous fight. I was impressed." The raspy voice chuckled darkly.

They all looked up, as a glossy skinned, purple and white creature with eyes and lips like rubies came stalking over towards the cage.

_Lord Frieza_.

Bulma didn't know how she knew that, but she just did. She must have seen him before. He was a beautiful creature, quite enrapturing to look at. Instantly, she felt the need to get to her feet.

His eyes scanned over all of them, as his lips curved into a smirk.

The Namekian stopped shaking the bars, gazing in awe at Frieza, his mouth agape.

"Zarbon, get me something to drink, would you?" he said, and Bulma looked to the tall, stunning man, with long green hair and deep green eyes.

"Yes, Lord Frieza," Zarbon said, and paced over to the large dining table.

That voice. That accent. It sounded faintly Australian. It was the same voice that kept talking to them over the speakers. So _that_ was Zarbon. Bulma could've stared at him all day, but Frieza kept pacing back and forth into her line of vision. She hadn't expected such a strange creature.

"So," he said, clasping his hands together excitedly. "I bet you're all wondering what you're doing here." He looked among them all, his face glowing with delight. No one answered. No one uttered a sound. He chuckled. "Well, I've invited you here to discuss my little … plan." He stopped momentarily as Zarbon handed him a glass of red liquid, which Bulma hoped was wine.

The small, blue prisoner started whispering to himself again. Freiza's eyes darted to him. "Now, there's no need for that language. This is all just a bit of fun."

Thomas opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it.

"You're all going to help me, you see. We're going to play this fantastic game I've created." He took a sip of the red liquid and smacked his lips together, his eyes landing on Bulma.

"You're the greatest minds in the galaxy. Except me, of course. You should be honoured that I've chosen you. You're going to find me the Dragon Balls on the largest uninhibited planet in the solar system—planet zero-one-six-zero."

The Dragon Balls? The name of that planet rang a bell. Bulma's brow furrowed. Whatever he wanted her to do, she wasn't going to do it. He could have whatever he wanted. If he wanted money, she had plenty of money to give him. Surely she could bribe him off easily?

"A group of highly intelligent minds like you should find that too easy, so I've added a little bit of spice to the game."

Bulma could feel warm tears forming.

"Planet zero-one-six-zero is one of the most hostile planets in the galaxy, so you will need strength, which none of you have. You will be paired up with a warrior of my choice, and you will find the Dragon Balls together. There are seven balls in total. There are seven of you and seven of warriors. You have seven days to find the balls." He took another thoughtful sip of his drink. "Oh, sorry, I forgot to mention … You will each be given a device to wear around your ankle. If you exceed one hundred metres from your partner, the device will inject a deadly poison into your bodies, killing you instantly. If you die, then your partner dies."

Bulma looked over at the other prisoners, who were all doing the same thing. Suddenly, everyone was eyeing each other curiously. Bulma couldn't take it all in. Was it even real? Her dreams were so vivid these days …

Chichi was sobbing quietly into her hands.

"If you do not gather all seven dragon balls when the seven days are up, you will die. If you _do_, you and your partner will be granted freedom."

"How are we all supposed to get deh seven dra-gon balls if there eez already seven people. We can only acquire one each," said Vadim, counting on his fingers, nervously rocking back and forth.

Frieza snorted with laughter. "Tut, tut. Aren't you supposed to be clever? It's a free for all! If you find someone with a dragon ball, you take it from them, and well, you get the rest of the picture." Freiza's eyes shone at the thought.

Vadim's face went grey, and it looked like he was about to pass out.

"This is insane," Chichi said, shaking all over.

"Oh, dear. It's just a bit of fun, my little pet," Frieza said, and walked right up to the bars of the cage. His tail snaked through the bars and stroked Chichi's face.

She whimpered, inching away from him.

Bulma felt a surge of fury and tried to bite her tongue, but she couldn't help it. "Get off her," she shouted, and Freiza locked eyes with her.

He grinned. "You must be Bulma Briefs."

"That's right," she said, holding her chin high. What the hell was she doing? Why had her body turned to mush all of a sudden?

"I know _exactly_ who you're going to be paired up with …" His red eyes blazed into her blue eyes.

She sat back down on the floor. Melted, in fact. Something about Lord Frieza sent her cowering in fear. He gulped the last of his drink, threw the glass on the floor and snarled at Bulma before turning around and clapping his hands high in the air.

"Without further ado, I suggest we should get on with the show."

Bulma stiffened again, panic coursing through her veins. The show? What show? There was no show. She started to push herself backwards on her behind, until her back met the cool metal of the other side of the cage. She was well and truly trapped.

Somehow, she found Chichi's hand, and gripped hold of it tightly, feeling the bones crush together. Chichi squeezed back, but Bulma couldn't look anywhere but at Frieza as he strode towards the end of the dining table to meet Zarbon. People started to scream again, the bars of the cage were rattling from the Namekians shaking them, she could hear Vadim mumbling to himself, the blue creature started whispering again. Thomas was shouting obscenities at Lord Frieza but to no avail. All the sounds crashed together until they morphed into the high-pitched screech from Bulma's dream. No. She couldn't go back there. No, no, no.

Chichi's grip loosened, causing Bulma to snap back to reality. Chichi was slumped forward with a dart sticking out of her neck. Another dart? Bulma's eyes widened in terror as the high pitched shrill drowned her. She got up and ran, gripping onto the cage.

"Let me out, right now," she said, staring right at Frieza. She knew it was a wasted effort, but she couldn't sit around a just give up.

He turned round and smiled a glorious smile, before waving. "Sleep tight, Bulma Briefs."

A dart had been shot from somewhere in the room, right into her neck. She gasped and tried to pull it out, swivelling and toppling over Vadim's unconscious body. She lifted her head, dazedly, searching for where the shot had come from, but couldn't see anyone. Her eyelids felt too heavy. She closed them.

* * *

The thrashing from side to side woke Bulma up from a dreamless sleep. Her eyes felt like they had to prized open. She didn't want to open them, because the last thing she remembered was being shot in the neck by a tranquiliser gun. Regardless, she knew she had to. Being shaken was forcing her to accept her reality. But what was her reality?

The first thing she felt was a pulsing pain in her leg. She opened her eyes, rubbed away the thick film of drowsiness, and looked down to see her jeans torn from the knee down and her ankle dripping with blood, where a strange, metal-looking anklet had been attached. She tried to reach down to get it off, but she was severely restricted by a set of straps around her arms and chest, holding her to her seat, like some kind of roller-coaster harness. She looked at it again. The blood had hardened into scabs. Three large streaks of dried blood down her leg. The pain was immeasurable. She couldn't help let out a sob.

The containment she was in was small, probably a six by four meter cell. It was dark, and smelled like rotten flesh. It must have been used for torture purposes because there was blood spatter and smears on the walls.

It thrashed again, violently throwing Bulma forward, her chest crushing against the harness. She was moving. She was moving fast. Was she in a ship? It was the worst ship she'd ever been in, if it was.

"Help," she shouted, and bit her lip, awaiting any kind of response.

All she could hear was the walls rattling through the air, and an exhaust of some kind, burning into the atmosphere. She screamed until her throat became too sore. No one was there. She was alone. Not even Chichi was there. What had happened to everyone? Why was she on her own? She had barely been able to listen to what Frieza said. It all happened too fast. None of it filtered through the shock and confusion. She closed her eyes, threw her head forward and sobbed quietly. She wanted to go home. She wanted to see her boyfriend and for him to tell her that everything was going to be fine. She wanted to wake up and for it all to be just another nightmare. She could cope with that.

"Good morning, my little lab rats and monkeys," the sinister, wiry voice of Frieza came crackling out of a speaker somewhere.

Bulma lifted her head up, pushing her matted aqua hair out of her face, and rubbed the mucus from her nose with the back of her hand. His voice sent a chill down her spine every time.

"As of now, you are travelling at a catatonic speed to the planet zero-one-six-zero, where you will begin your search for the seven Dragon Balls."

That planet, the name. It rang a bell again, but she didn't know why. Her head pulsed with frustration as everything came flooding back from the meeting with Frieza.

"In the room opposite to you is your team mate, or partner, as you will. Remember, stay close to them. We don't want any premature casualties, now, do we?" He chuckled, and the voice trailed off until it disappeared.

In the room opposite? Bulma looked to the metal door, where there was a tiny, square panel, which had been cut out, like a window. She craned her neck, but couldn't see a damn thing. _Shit_. There was someone on the other side of that wall, trapped in a cell like she was. Her _partner_. The thought made her skin break out into thousands of goose bumps. It was real. This was really happening. Deep down, she always knew something bad was going to happen to her. Everything was going too well: perfect job, perfect family, and perfect boyfriend. And now she was probably going to die. She was too exhausted and drained to even fight back.

But, something about knowing that she had someone else with her gave her a slither of hope.

She cleared her raw throat. If someone was there, maybe she could talk to them, communicate with them. "Hello? Is anyone there?"

She waited.

Nothing.

"My name is Bulma Briefs … I'm from the planet Earth—"

She was hurled forward as the ship started to shake again, worsening until her body was lifting off the seat, her harness choking her and digging into her sore collar bone. She screamed, her voice cracking into a mute wail. What was happening? At that moment, she wanted to black out, she wanted the darkness to consume her and never let her resurface.

The cell rattled and rattled, and Bulma could've sworn she heard loose bolts dropping to the floor and rolling around. This was it. She was going to die. She squeezed her eyes shut, gripped onto the harness and started humming the song her mother would sing to her when she was frightened, blocking out all the noises surrounding her. A tear ran down her cheek.

She reached the second verse when the piercing, high pitch 'ping' returned. She could hear nothing else. She slowly opened her eyes and for a moment, she thought she saw clear blue sky, before being thrust to the side of the cell, her lungs crushing together against the harness, taking all the oxygen out of her body.

Just as she wanted, she was pulled under again, the drilling in her ears fading out.

* * *

The cell was icy cold, drawing Bulma out, back to the surface. She coughed, and tiny specks of blood flew out, landing on her cheeks. She needed to move. But she didn't want to. A shot of disappointment hit her suddenly. She actually thought she'd died. As the thought came upon her, so did the pain in her leg, her shoulders, her chest.

She could hear the wind whipping the sides of the cell, making it vibrate and howl. She managed to roll over onto her back, throwing the torn harness off her body, and exhale very slowly, allowing herself to process what the hell was going on.

A banging sound startled her. Her hearing came back into focus, and she lifted her head up slightly. The door was open and banging against the wall. There was a tiny corridor on the other side, and she could see the adjacent cell, the door wide open.

Her heart lunged, and she suddenly found the strength to get to her feet. She dropped to her knees, gripping onto her ribs, crying out in pain. She let out short breaths. How was she supposed to do anything if she was on the edge of life already? It felt as if there was a hand on her ribs, pulling them apart every time she moved. It didn't matter. She had to get up. C'mon, Bulma, get _up_. You are not that weak.

She bit her lip and slowly lifted herself up, holding onto her ribs. Right, that's it. Now, walk a bit further … She hobbled to the open door. The device on her ankle was tugging at her skin. It had been drilled into her bones. She could feel it moving as she moved. It made her feel nauseous. Frieza was a sick creature. Why the hell would he do something like that?

The cell opposite was identical to the one she had been in. As she stepped into the narrow corridor, a sudden gust of wind nearly knocked her off her feet again. The freezing cold gripped her entire body. The main door was open, and all there was outside was a white canvas. _Snow_. Everywhere. Bulma's eyes widened as she held her body for warmth. The cell opposite was empty. The person in there had vanished. Maybe there was no one in there to begin with. Perhaps they were on a different ship?

Or … maybe … it was all a hoax, an elaborate plan to try and scare everyone to death. The idea seemed plausible. Frieza was a deranged monster, clearly, so he could have fabricated the entire thing. The throbbing in her ankle told her otherwise, though. She had to get out of there.

She exhaled sharply, and hobbled out into the bitterly cold outdoors, the wind and snow wrapping around her frame, controlling the direction she moved in. Bulma gasped, finding it hard to breathe. The shock was too much. She was palpitating, wearing a torn t-shirt and jeans.

She waded through the deep flurry of snow, further and further away from the ship.

She was going to die.

Blinding light swept past her face, casting a ray of heat across her body. A loud explosion erupted right by her feet, sending her flying backwards into the snow, her body collapsing like a ragdoll. She lay there, staring at the grey sky, blinking when a flake of snow landed in her eyes. It felt relaxing, numbing the pain. She could lay there forever. Forget about everything. The snow seeped into her clothes, saturating the fabric, but she didn't care. What did she have to care about anymore? She wasn't going to be part of some dumb game. Who the hell did Frieza think he was?

"One more step, human, and you'll kill us both," a gruff voice shouted from somewhere in the distance.

Oh, now her mind was playing tricks on her. She forced herself up, her limbs trembling, her clothes sticking to her body, and she turned around. The snow was very light, but the wind was sending it swirling around the sky. She squinted, using her hand to shield her eyes from the snowflakes. The cell was barely visible beyond the blur. But she saw it, or, him, rather, standing on the roof, his arm stretched out with a ball of light in his palm. It was merely a silhouette. Had he come to kill her? The panic raised in her chest, as she stared at the figure in the distance.

"Who are you?" she managed.

The light in his hand diminished. She'd been walking towards him without being aware of it. His features became stronger, his black spikey hair blowing in the wind, his bizarre blue and gold armour, a deep frown etched into his face. His presence was overpowering. Even if she wanted to scream, she couldn't.

That's when she saw it—the device around his ankle, where his clothes had been torn, the dry blood on his leg.

Her _partner_.

* * *

A/N - Did you like? I hope so. I'm going to try and whack about four chapters out at once as soon as I can, so you guys can have quite a bit to chew on. Just wanted to see if you liked the idea. Hope to have the chapters done in about two weeks! Until then, thank you!


	2. Chapter 2 - Day Zero

Chapter Two – Day Zero  
Meet and Greet

It was really happening. This _game_. A game, where she had to gather the seven Dragon Balls, and _kill_ whoever got in her way. She couldn't do that. Chichi was one of those people, who could potentially stand in the line of fire. It wasn't like she could refuse it either. Either way, the future looked bleak at the moment. The phrase 'fight or flight' was whirling in her head like a hurricane, knocking down any rational though and spitting it back out somewhere far in the distance. There was no hope. As it was now, Bulma was standing on the thin line between life and death, her collar bone broken, her ribs, probably cracked, her stomach eating itself inside out. She was weak. Extremely weak. Frieza wasn't going to get much of a show, because she felt like loosening her grip on life.

Her back clicked as she nudged herself upright onto the freezing metal wall of the cell, nursing her sore shoulder, her bare feet soaking and numb from the snow. She watched the warrior doing press-ups in the small corridor, grunting and clapping in-between each set. Was he insane? His muscles twitched and shook with the pressure of each push. There were no shoes on his feet either, but he seemed to be coping perfectly fine, like working in this sort of climate was second nature to him. He looked furious, and had not spoken a word to her since she almost collapsed in a corner to wallow in self-pity. Blinking away threatening tears, Bulma tried—and failed—to stand up. If this guy was her partner, and say, in theory, if they were to contend in this game, shouldn't they have been coming up with some sort of plan or strategy?

He stood up, rolled his shoulders, exposing his built frame. He was impressive. Almost surreal. He looked ready for anything, ferocious, like a gladiator preparing for the coliseum.

"Do you have a name?" she said, keeping a steady balance against the wall.

There was a short period of silence, and he didn't even give her the satisfaction of acknowledgement, before saying, "That's none of your concern," and started rolling his right wrist.

Even though she was on the brink of death, she still knew when someone was being utterly rude to her. She gawped, about to pursue with a tirade of comments about how you're supposed to look at someone when they speak to you, but she thought better of it. She was too ill, and the effort might be costly. Rather than point out his failure to act appropriately in the presence of a leading female scientist, she merely said, "It is … I'm Bulma Brie—"

"The only thing I care about, human, is gathering the Dragon Balls for Frieza," he said, cutting her off completely, and finally taking the time to glare at her.

She kept eye contact. She'd been dumped into the same shit-filled boat with him, so why was he so deft with the remarks? Dying didn't seem like such a bad idea to Bulma. "What?" she said, mustering the courage to hobble towards him, unable to feel the ground beneath her dead feet. "Are you for real?"

He moved onto his left wrist, rolling it around, loosening the stiff joints, while Bulma approached him, burning flames in her eyes. "If we're going to work together, you should at least tell me your na—"

Before she could finish speaking, her back cracked against the wall, as he pinned her, his forearm squashed against her windpipe, severely restricting the air flow. He had her. The flush of fear started from her feet, making its way to her brain, telling her that she wasn't going to make it out this time. He was so close to her, he could see the frightened pulse, beating rapidly in her neck. He eyed her up, scrutinising her panic-stricken blue eyes.

Bulma gargled on saliva that was trying to make its way down the blocked airway, her feet suspended from the ground, her chipped nails clawing and grasping at the taut flesh of her attacker.

"I don't have to do _anything _for you," he hissed, his nose almost pressing against hers.

"Stop …" she spluttered. "You'll die too …" His eyes were glowing, two black orbs, enlarging at the sound of her desperate plea for help, like a predator about to kill.

For a split second, there was a look of distress on his face, before he shook it away and snarled, baring sharp canines. "Who says I have anything to live for?" It came out more as a statement than a question, but Bulma's vision began to cloud over with a grey blur, the noise returning. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head, and before death could take her, her broken body dropped to the floor, and she collapsed in a heap.

Everything came rushing back. The oxygen, the blood to her head and legs, the sound of footsteps marching further and further away until they vanished, the moaning wind calling from right outside. She gasped, taking in lungful after lungful of air-or what she assumed to be air—until her mouth was too dry and she had to stop. She stayed on her hands and knees, staring at the meshed floor. She coughed and blood flew out, embellishing the bland grey metal. It stood out so much. The first vibrant thing she had seen in a while. It looked beautiful.

Slowly, she lifted her head and gazed out at the expanse of snow. He was gone. Her shoulders loosened, a shot of pain running up her left shoulder and concentrating in her collar bone.

_What the hell was going on?_

She knew what was going on, but didn't want to admit it anymore. Giving up didn't seem like an option _anymore_. She wasn't going to wish for death, and she wasn't going to allow some warrior with serious anger issues get the better of … her life. If he wanted to kill her, then he should've done it. He didn't and that was a choice he made. _Unless …_

Her eyes widened.

Unless he was walking out of the boundaries, killing them both that way.

She grimaced as she pushed herself up to a sitting position, her teeth chattering even though the cold didn't feel present anymore. Like a tidal wave, drowsiness washed over her, overwhelming her, her eyelids feeling like feathers falling from an empty sky.

She started when something banged against the floor beside her. There, by her feet, was a huge back pack, with patches of snow on the top. She looked up. He was back, his arms folded, scowling down at her. She didn't feel scared of him, for some reason. After all, what was the worst he could do? She was already suffering way beyond her pain threshold. His eyes narrowed, as if he was expecting her to say something, probably disappointed that he couldn't get an excuse to strangle her again.

Absentmindedly, she rubbed her neck where his arm had been, still warm from his touch. Then she looked at his feet, bare, showing no signs of the plummeting temperature. He'd been wading through the snow without shoes on for about ten minutes. Wasn't he in agony?

"I'm a Saiyan," he said proudly. "You're an Earthling. That is all you need to know."

Bulma closed her mouth, dropping her eyes to the old, well-used bag, carefully reaching out to dust the snow off the top. A _Saiyan_. She knew exactly what race that was. Her best friend was a Saiyan. Goku. A fresh batch of tears gathered behind her eyes, but she forced them back quickly. Saiyans were a fearless, powerful race. She briefly did some research on them, but there was seldom evidence that they existed anymore, excusing Goku.

"What is this?" she muttered, noticing that he was still watching her intently, a confusing look, one she couldn't determine, in his eyes.

The word 'partner' kept appearing in her mind like windshield wipers going back and forth in torrential rain.

"Supplies," he said, then looked off to the side.

It was probably best to leave it at that. She focused on the bag, brushing the last bit of snow from it, her mouth opening when she saw the faded Capsule Corp logo. A question arose. _How the hell?_ Like a kid on Christmas day, she ripped the bag open, her hands clawing at the sea of items until her nails grazed against something small. Two, in fact. It was as if all her ailments knew that they were about to be saved, when she produced two small beans. Sensu beans, given to her by Goku before …

Laughter escaped her lips, and she took one of the beans, swallowing it whole, forgetting about the nameless Saiyan watching. What happened after that was hard to describe. It felt like everything fitted back into place, like everything woke up from a long sleep and decided to function again. Her stomach even growled gratefully from the small token. The best part was being able to move fully again, being able to roll her shoulders without searing pain. She wanted to cry.

He blinked, his eyebrow arched. _What the fuck did she just eat?_ It didn't matter. He wasn't there to watch what she did- the pathetic excuse of a living–being. She was shit on his shoe, for all he cared. He just had to walk her off until the Dragon Balls were gathered, and then-

Bulma cried out with joy, rummaging through the rest of the bag, pulling out little trinkets and gadgets. It was the bag she had packed for emergencies. Everything was there. There was a small plastic case, containing twelve capsules, some food, some clothes and a few vehicle capsules. Something she didn't pack, though, was two pairs of steel-capped boots. She pulled them out and held one at arms-length. They were leather, with laces running right up the top, which ended at the top of your calves. They weren't hers. Suddenly she felt sick, and dropped them to the floor. Had Frieza done this? Somehow got her belongings and added a few bonus items to keep her steady? She looked at the Saiyan's feet again, and gulped. She pushed a pair of boots towards him.

It felt freezing cold all of a sudden.

It didn't take long before the Saiyan picked the boots up, slid his feet inside them, crouched down and started lacing them up. They seemed to fit perfectly around the anklet. It seemed all too natural to him. Bulma felt like she'd been torn away from a moment of oblivious happiness. For a moment, she felt totally sheltered, as if she was searching through that bag in her own bedroom. The unfamiliar footwear sent her plummeting back down to planet zero-one-six-zero, and it hurt. Her hands were clasped into tight fists. No matter, she had to do something. Picking up the case of capsules, she decided that she'd better start making a move, whether the Saiyan liked it or not.

* * *

There was always a way out of something. Bulma resolved that fact as she gently touched the device on her ankle, studying it for any weak spots, or detachable parts. If worse came to worst, she would have to rip it out of her leg, but, then, she would bleed to death. The pain alone would knock her out. She couldn't do that, anyway. It was screwed in. Tight. Two bolts running right through the bone in her leg. Every inch she moved, it was there, tugging at the nerves, making sure she was aware of it. The pain had subsided, mostly. It was more of a dull vibration. No more painful that pins and needles.

_But there was always a way out_.

Bulma frowned, pulling the huge, ugly, steel-toed boots over. She'd do whatever it took to stay alive, and if helping the Saiyan find the Dragon Balls was what it took, then that's what she would do. That wasn't her main concern, though. Getting this device off her ankle was all she could think about. Without the device, she had a fighting chance. And then she would find Chichi. There would be places somewhere on this planet, rich with the right materials to execute her plan. Manipulating the Saiyan into taking her to these unknown places was going to be a challenge. But it was her only hope.

Once she put the disgusting boots on, she scrambled for the empty bag on the floor. She'd ransacked it of its supplies, all the emergency items she'd packed, but not enough for what she needed now. There were capsules of dried food, tiny packets of apricots, coconut and slithers of beef jerky. They'd be rationed. The Saiyan didn't know of the edible possessions, and she didn't have to tell him. Not yet, anyway. She didn't trust him. Not after he almost choked her to death.

He walked back into the cell, a thunderous look on his face. Bulma grabbed the loose items, ready to cram them back in the bag. When she pulled open the top of the bag, she noticed a gleam from the corner of her eye. There was still something in there, a small, oval object. She snatched it and smiled broadly, rolling it over in her palm, allowing the cool metal to warm. She couldn't believe it. "No way …" She laughed, grabbing the attention of the sullen Saiyan.

He'd been waiting for ten minutes for her to put some decent clothing on, and she had yet to finish that simple task. He should've choked her completely. If it wasn't for the anklet, she would be dead, not sitting on the floor, laughing at a metal object.

His shadow loomed over her, sending a cold breath of air through her body. She ignored him, because she had, in her possession, the one device that set them miles apart from anyone else—the dragon radar. She brushed the screen free of dust, happy to see that it had survived unscathed, until she turned it over again, peeling off the battery pack, revealing a severed wire. She clicked the power button on the top. Nothing. She tapped it a few times. Sometimes those kinds of devices needed a decent kick-start.

"No, no, no …" she said, pinching the tiny wire and examining it closely. "Shit."

The Saiyan exhaled heavily through his nostrils. She jumped a little, almost forgetting he was there. She needed to get on his good side, if he even had a good side. So far, it wasn't going in the right direction. Her cool façade was fading quickly. The dragon radar was like the diamond in the rough, and even that had been buried in sand now. She stood up, zipped her capsule jacket up right to the top, and grabbed the radar tightly.

"All this stuff … It doesn't matter how it got here, but this," she said, holding the radar out, allowing the Saiyan to get a good look. He barely glanced at it, before looking away. "It could make this game a lot easier."

Something in her words sparked another bout of anger from him. His eyes alit and his nostrils flared. "Whatever it is, you can forget it. I don't need this to be _easier_, and I don't need your help. Fortunately for you, you've been paired with the strongest warrior in the galaxy. All you have to do is keep within distance and keep silent, so I can finish this before we die." He'd had enough of waiting around.

Bulma had to restrain herself from rolling her eyes. "How are you going to find the Dragon Balls? Do you even know where you're headed?"

He took a threatening step closer, able to see the naked distress in Bulma's eyes.

"This device …" she said again, panicking and holding the radar close to his face. It almost felt like she was a sales person, trying desperately hard to show him the latest item, except, this was literally a matter of life and death. "It's mine … I mean, I made it."

His face softened a bit, which spurred her to continue.

"It's a dragon radar. It tracks the energy the Dragon Balls provide, and points to their exact location." She sighed.

His gaze dropped to the device in her tiny hand. _A dragon radar?_ Something about the item was intriguing. It looked faintly archaic, but familiar. But, he couldn't have seen it before.

"It's broken, though," she said, showing him the tethered wire.

"Well, what fucking use is that?" It was becoming increasingly difficult not to kill this Earthling. He'd had enough. He was going to have to just go ahead and start searching. She would just have to follow. And if she got in the way during battle, then he would kill her himself. Rather that than have her make a mockery of his name. He turned and headed for the outdoors, the snow fall becoming increasingly heavy. Sooner or later, they were going to get stuck. Or, she would. Vegeta wondered what he had done to displease Frieza so much for him to give him such a pathetic partner. But, deep down, he knew the answer to that.

"If I have the right tools, it can be fixed," Bulma shouted after him, stopping him in the doorway, the harsh wind manipulating his hair style.

For a moment he just stood, taking the words in, syllable by syllable, as if he were translating them. He didn't have the time to be helping her out. He was furious that he had to be paired up with anyone. He was capable of doing this alone. Every time the Earthling spoke, he wanted to blast her into another dimension, like he did with most people who stood in his way. But the prospect of having a fully functional Dragon Ball tracking device did seem appealing. That way, he could get this game over and done with. Nothing else mattered.

"What is needed?" he said, without looking back.

She watched his back muscles twitch in irritation. "I don't know … uh … Something to connect this wire back to the system, something to stick it to," she said, flipping the radar over in her hand.

He stormed over, making her flinch, and grabbed the device. "I will find something for this, and you'll fix it. That will be your role in this poor production."

She really didn't want to argue with him, because she didn't know what he was capable of, but if he was capable of choking someone for merely asking him his name, then she would take a step back. For now.

She nodded.

"Right," he huffed, and headed for the door, Bulma in tow, lumbering the bag on her back. It wasn't too heavy, but heavy enough that it would soon ache.

They both stepped outside, suddenly everything becoming real. They were beginning. Bulma's body stiffened. What would happen if someone was to jump out at them now? She couldn't do anything. Those prisoners. They were innocent people. She wasn't going to do anything to harm them. She looked at the back of the Saiyan's head.

_But he would._

The snowfall was heavy, forcing her to pull the jacket hood over her head, encasing her ears with an oblivious humming sound. She could have had her head in a fridge, foraging for one of her mother's homemade chocolate puddings. The Saiyan stopped dead in his tracks, sending a bolt of panic into Bulma's heart, and then he hovered off the ground and quickly accelerated.

Bulma screamed. "Wait. Stop. What are you doing?" running after him, before it was too late.

He stopped, dropping to the floor, glowering at her, his hair catching him in the eyes. He looked surprised for a moment, then the anger and disappointment washed over his features. "Oh, you have to be fucking joking, Frieza?" he roared into the empty atmosphere.

Bulma wanted to wring his neck. Shouting like that could get them killed. She squinted, her eyes almost closing.

"You can't fly, can you?" he said, stalking back.

She shook her head. The cold was beginning to reach through her clothes. She couldn't stay outside for much longer.

"Shit … " He paced forwards, then back to her again, the stress palpable in his stride.

Bulma shifted the bag, awkwardly waiting for him to do something. He looked like he was battling against himself, willing himself not to do anything too drastic. They would have to walk. That's what she'd set out to do, anyway, so that was half the battle done already. But how far they would have to walk was unknown.

Within thirty seconds, their ship had become a distant memory in the snow storm, no sign of it ever existing. It was like they had walked for hours. Bulma decided to carry on walking, past the Saiyan, and into the blank canvas ahead. What else could she do? It wasn't long before she heard the snow crunching behind her.

They'd been walking for an hour, Bulma having to stop to get another capsule jacket, and still, there was nothing in sight. Frieza was right, the conditions on this planet were horrendous, and it looked like she had been dumped in the worst possible place. It was looking like an early exit. The Saiyan hadn't spoken a word, quietly marching behind her the entire time, occasionally huffing, but she knew that it wouldn't take much longer for him to crack up. Trudging through the thick snow was taking its toll on her tired legs, and she was beginning to lose the sensation in them again. Or, that's what she thought, until her calve thudded against something hard.

She wailed from the shock of the connection, and the Saiyan pushed her out of the way as he dug through the snow, his hands shovelling huge clumps of it out of the way. Bulma gazed in amazement as he dug deeper and deeper.

"I knew it," he muttered, more to himself than to Bulma, and he reached out to lift open a small man-hole cover.

It creaked piercingly loud, but Bulma didn't care. It was shelter, somewhere for her to rest, and possibly find the right equipment to fix the radar. There was a spasm of hope within her, brutally pushing away the huge doubt. The Saiyan jumped down the hole, disregarding her presence at all, and perhaps forgetting about the distance they had to share. She panicked for a moment, thinking that the drop could possibly be more than one hundred meters, meaning her death was imminent. But the oxygen still flowed through her lungs freely.

Gingerly, she leaned over the opening to the hole, checking the drop, but all she could see was darkness. She'd been with the Saiyan for less than two hours and she already hated his guts. She was a sitting duck outside on her own. Did he not realise the definition of a partner? Thankfully, Bulma noticed the rusty-looking metal handles of a ladder, leading down the hole, so step by step, she made her way down into the black. The further down she climbed, the more terrified she became. They were marooned on an uninhibited planet. God knows what kind of things could be lurking around. One thing the hole did determine, though, was that there was a civilisation here once. Or beings who were somewhat civilised.

She closed her eyes as her foot tapped the floor below and she let go of the bars, landing firmly on solid ground, the noise reverberating back up the hole. There was the faint sound of water pattering somewhere, but no sound of her partner. She wanted to scream, as the overwhelming smell of mould caught her suddenly.

There was nothing worse than the darkness.

She shifted the bag on her back again, trying to boost her confidence, and turned around, opening her eyes and willing them to adjust.

A dull light flicked on, and there he was, standing in the corner of what looked like a bomb shelter, watching her intently. She curiously glanced around the room, at the damp ceilings, the rotten wooden table with paper strewn all over it, the single chair, and a mottled bed sheet, which was covered in dark stains. It was a tiny room. Bulma's heart sank when she realised that everything she could see was everything the room contained. There wasn't anything remotely useful. Even a pair of scissors would have made a difference. She had to remind herself that this was a different planet, and whoever used to live here, wouldn't have the same luxuries she had back at home.

The Saiyan threw the broken radar at her. She caught it.

"Well?" he said, his tone sharp and accusing. "What now, Earthling? There is nothing of use in here, so if you don't have anything to suggest, I say we take your little device and flush it down a fucking toilet."

She frowned, defeat gripping her. There had to be something she could do. It was her only chance to claw her way out of this mess, and she was growing tired of sitting silent, while he ran his mouth at her. She held the radar at her side, valiantly stiffening her upper lip.

"We'll find somewhere else, then," she said.

He laughed, the sound so tight and confined in such a small room. "Oh, really? And where would you suggest we go next? But, that's right, you don't know." He approached her again, but this time she stood her ground, trying to show no fear. It was as if something derailed him from the assault, and he stopped. "We're wasting time. I should have knocked you unconscious before." He growled.

Bulma was baffled. _What a weird guy_. She felt emotionally drained with the Saiyan and she barely knew him. It was interesting seeing someone so virile and outwardly confident, but also being able to see something deeper. There was more than meets the eye to this Saiyan.

"Look, you can threaten me all you want, but I didn't ask for this, and honestly, if you want to kill me, you go on ahead. You won't gain anything out of it."

"Was that a challenge?" his eyes flickered at the word 'challenge'.

"Let's just fix this radar, and if it doesn't work, I'll follow you," she said, peering at him.

His eyes widened and he sent his fist into the dry plaster on the wall, leaving a gaping hole, and shaking the entire room. "I'm not following orders from _you_," he yelled, and a faint blue aura drifted up the length of his body, heating the room substantially.

Bulma stood tall. He was beginning to grate her skin. He was like a spoilt little kid, throwing his toys around when he didn't get what he wanted. Something clicked in her head for a second. That aura. The heat it produced. She stepped towards him, and he looked faintly surprised by her action.

"Wait, that energy …" she said, looking at the fading blue glow. It was the same heat she felt across her face when she walked out into the snow. "You can control that, right?"

He didn't say anything, just stared incredulously.

"Can you concentrate it to a fraction? Like, a tiny spec of energy?"

"Of course I can."

She grinned. "The heat it produced can melt the wire back together. The radar will work that way," she said, almost fidgety with excitement. She opened the back of the radar and handed it over to him.

He gingerly took hold of it, glancing at her, the sheer joy on her face being too foreign to him. _What a stupid, delusional creature_. It didn't matter, though. All he had to do was this one thing, then she would stand back and just deal with whatever happened next. He placed the wire between his finger and thumb, closed his eyes, furrowing his brow, to concentrate the energy to such a low level. With him being extremely powerful anyway, it made this task a bit of a challenge. But he did it, the glow lighting up the disgusting shelter, warming the area.

Bulma felt the warmth wrap around her small frame. For that single moment, she felt at peace. Then the room returned to a morbid grey colour, and the Saiyan shoved the radar into her chest.

"Done. Now make it work," he said, gesturing to the radar.

_Jeez_. She took a deep breath. It had to work. There was nothing else she could do, other than become this Saiyan's slave. When she pressed the power button, it took a few intense seconds before the screen came to life. Her shoulders sank. _Thank God_. It just had to be reprogrammed to track Dragon Balls on this planet, which was easy enough.

"Just give me a minute. It needs to be tuned."

He crossed his arms. "You have to be kidding …"

Deciding to ignore him, she got to work. The task was far too easy for her, so she started to wonder about the Saiyan: how he got himself into this mess, whether he was merely an innocent bystander like her. The more she looked at him, the more she doubted that. There was something about him that made her edgy. He knew who Frieza was. Why? Before all this, she was completely oblivious to the name, yet he knew it. The whole thing was too distorted for her to try and comprehend. What kind of sick monster would do this? And, for the Saiyan to be affiliated with Frieza, made her question what kind of partnership she'd been dumped in. It was apparent that they were working for Frieza, finding the Dragon Balls for his benefit only. That was what _she_ was doing, anyway. The Saiyan, though, he was too anxious to dive into the challenge. She knew what Saiyans were like. Thirsty for a battle, and the spillage of blood.

_'I know exactly who you're going to be paired up with …'_

The words Frieza used echoed through her mind. He'd purposely chosen who to pair her up with. Why this Saiyan? It made her wonder for a moment about all the other 'teams'. Who had Chichi been paired up with, and would she understand why? Probably not. She screwed the power button back into place.

"Phew," she said, clicking it repeatedly.

The Saiyan stood in front of her, leering over the radar to see what she'd done.

The radar bleeped every time she clicked it, then she gasped as a little orange glow appeared on the screen. "Whu … what?"

He grabbed the device. "What is it?"

"Give it back," she said, reaching for it.

He held her shoulder back. "Not until you tell me what's going on." He squinted at the screen. "What does this mean, Earth woman?"

"It means there's a Dragon Ball," she said, giving up and folding her arms.

"And?" he prompted condescendingly.

"It's close."

"How close?" You could see him itching to go.

"Very."

"Tell me where. We're wasting time!" He grabbed her jacket, lifting her off her feet.

She held onto where he had gripped. "I'm not telling you _anything_ until you put me down."

He searched her eyes, flicking back to the radar. He didn't have a choice. He couldn't determine what the image on the screen meant. It was merely a grid with an orange dot on it. There was no indication of distance or time. He let go of her, and gave back the radar. It was humiliating enough.

She straightened her jacket up. "Let me see …" She clicked it once more. "It's … That's weird."

"What now?"

"Does Frieza know where the Dragon Balls are located?"

"Of course he doesn't," he said, glowering at her incredulously.

"It's just … The Dragon Ball is only a couple hundred meters from here. It's practically a two minute walk." She brought the radar right up to her face. That's what the device said. Unless it was broken.

"Well, I'm not going to wait around, listening to you blabbing," he said, barging past her to the entrance of the hole.

Bulma watched as he ascended up the tunnel. She'd better move, and quick. If the radar _was_ right, which she hoped it was, then they had a head start, a step closer to freedom and finding Chichi. They'd located the first Dragon Ball.


	3. Chapter 3 - Day One

Chapter 3 – Day One  
The First Hurdle

The air was colder, thinner, with feathers of snow, chasing each other in the sky above Bulma's head, landing all over her. She had to wipe them out of her eyes, and each time she looked, the Saiyan trekked further and further away until she could barely see him. She held the radar out, shielding it with her hand. The dragon ball was only a few more meters from here. It felt eerie, like they were backtracking towards the ship, but she couldn't be sure for all the snow was making everything look the same. The faint blue of the Saiyan's clothing was all she had to keep her moving in the right direction. He didn't have the radar, but he was heading in the right direction.

_Weird_.

She had to grip on to her hood tighter, as the wind pulled at it, leaving her face red raw. Her teeth began to chatter uncontrollably, but she tried to shrug it off and think about other things, like her boyfriend, Yamcha. She hoped he was OK. What happened back on Earth … Well, she couldn't remember. That was the problem. She just _hoped_ that Yamcha was OK. She wanted him to be there when she got back, because she _was_ coming back. She'd promised Chichi that they would both make it back in one piece. She needed to keep that in mind.

Bulma jolted half out of her skin when the Saiyan was right in her face, glowering at her. At that moment, she noticed the sky was darker, despite the impenetrable cloud cover. It was dark before, but now it was closing in, and fast. Turning her attention back to the Saiyan, she raised an eyebrow curiously.

"We've walked two hundred meters, now where is it? Check the radar."

"Ok, hold on." She studied the screen, the glowing dot flashing directly where they were standing. "But it's …" Bulma whipped around the area, the wind lashing at her face. There was nothing. Nothing, except snow. "We're standing directly on it, apparently."

"Stand aside," he said, and without hesitation, she did.

He crouched, stuck his hand out, and formed a ball of blue energy, which melted the snow down until the thick, brown soil started to show. Bulma crouched too, looking on, helplessly gripping onto the heavy back pack.

The dirt suddenly flew out, narrowly missing her face, as the Saiyan dug with his hands, tearing at the ground viciously. His shoulders hunched deeper and deeper as he dug further into the ground. Bulma hoped, for her sake, that he was digging in the right location; otherwise they would be there all night. Being out in this weather in the day time was bad enough, but at night? Surely the temperature would drop even further. She'd be dead for sure.

A while later, a muffled chuckle came from the Saiyan. He sprang up from the soil, covered with splodges on his armor, holding a small orange ball. It was smaller than the dragon balls on Earth, but the four stars on it, clarified that it was real enough. Bulma stopped shivering and couldn't help but smile a little. They'd found it. The first ball. They'd been there for four hours and found the first dragon ball. If they continued at this rate, they'd have all seven in no time. He threw the ball into Bulma's lap, causing her to fall back. It might have been small, but it was heavy. Was he expecting her to carry it?

"Where's the next one?" he said, looking over his shoulder distractedly, away from Bulma.

Bulma followed his gaze, but there was nothing there. It was even darker now. If there was a sun, it had definitely gone down. The temperature was dropping quickly, and all Bulma wore was jeans, a tattered t-shirt, and two capsule corp hoodies.

Not bothered about the decrease in temperature, the Saiyan asked her again, "I said, where is the next dragon ball, Earthling?"

His frown soon smoothed, and he shot another glance over his shoulder.

"What's over there? Why do you keep looking over there?" Bulma said, getting to her feet. She swivelled the bag around to her front and put the ball inside it. "I checked the radar before. The next one is too far from here … five hundred miles west."

He turned back. "It's nothing, probably just a creature of this planet."

"A creature? Like, a rabbit, or an owl?" she said, feebly hoping it was just a little mouse or something harmless.

He shook his head. "Stop time-wasting, and check the fucking—"

A rumbling growl sounded from behind him. His eyes narrowed and he turned around, balling his fists like he was preparing for some hand-to-hand combat. Bulma didn't know what was going on, but she didn't want to stick around to find out. She backed away. Whatever it was, she couldn't fight it. She didn't have any weapons with her. Then, in the darkness and winding snow, several red eyes emerged, and the growling became louder, echoing into the vast space.

A black ball of fur leapt out of the darkness, bounding over the Saiyan and jumping on top of Bulma. It knocked her down, and she quickly shielded her face with the back pack, at the same time feeling an excruciating blitz of pain in her right leg. She bellowed in agony, hot tears streaming down her cheeks. It felt like her leg had been torn in half. The creature on top had stopped attacking her, but there was still a lot of noise going on around, yelping and screeching. It was mind numbing. Bulma covered her ears, concentrating on the throbbing in her leg. She didn't want to look at it. If it had fallen off, she was done for.

Quickly, something latched onto her leg, forcing out another scream. It gripped onto the muscle and dragged her across the floor. That was it. She was a goner. The bag was removed roughly from her face, and snow flew over her, jetting into her mouth as she was pulled faster, hitting submerged rocks and stones. She gargled on her own spit, the panic colliding with rationality quickly, the sound of her own screaming the only thing she could hear, drowning everything else out. She was in a bubble, and soon enough the bubble popped, as did her ability to stay conscious.

* * *

_Bulma, you, my dear, can achieve anything you want when you put your mind to it._

She awoke with a start, disoriented, the unfamiliar smell of damp wood flooding her senses. There was a crunching sound close to her right. The sky was dark, but there was a bright moon light, shrouded by densely leaved tree tops. It was quiet. The last thing she remembered was being attacked by blood-thirsty werewolf creatures. Like it had waited dormant until she remembered, the pain surfaced in her leg, making her wince. She sat up on her elbows and sheepishly peered at the leg in question. It wasn't too bad. It had claw marks on it, but she hadn't been bitten. Still, there was the chance that it could've carried an infection. She was probably going to find out soon enough. But he wound looked clean, like it had been treated …

The Saiyan was sitting probably as far as he could get, leaning against a tree trunk, crunching into a huge animal carcass. She grimaced. _What the hell is that thing? Is it raw?_ There was blood, deep red, all smeared across his mouth. She should have felt sick, but as she looked on in feign horror, her stomach growled with jealousy. The bag was next to her feet, marred and scratched from whatever had attacked her, but it was still intact. She brought it towards her and hungrily pulled out the metal capsule case.

The area was warmer. It mirrored a typical forest on Earth, except the smell was slightly different, although that could have been the rotting animal the Saiyan was eating. It was still cold, though, so she guessed they couldn't have gone too far, maybe the altitude had decreased. Then it dawned on her. Did he carry her here? Was it him who grabbed her leg? She didn't dare ask him. He was too occupied. Her head was pounding, as if she had the mother of all hangovers. The last thing she wanted to do was spark another bout of violence from the unpredictable warrior.

When the sound of crunching stopped, Bulma swivelled around to face the Saiyan, who was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked at her for a split second, vague curiosity rearing itself, but his attention was swiftly drawn away to … anything other than her.

"Where are we?" she said wearily, holding the bag close to her chest for warmth.

He looked at the skeleton next to him, stripped bare of any flesh, then he said, "four hundred miles away from where we were before."

Bulma's mouth almost dropped to the floor. _Four hundred miles? But, how?_ How long had that taken them? Thinking about it too hard was making her headache worse. If it escalated into a migraine, she wouldn't be able to move at all. She played with her hands, locking her fingers together. "What were those things?"

He sighed, picked up the skeleton and tossed it behind him, like it was a toy he'd grown tired of. The sound of it crashing into a pile of branches reverberated through the forest.

_Has he just eaten one of them?_

"I don't know, but you should be dead." His eyes met hers, making her feel uncomfortable. "If it wasn't for that fucking anklet …" He threw his arms behind his head and shimmied down against the tree.

"How did you know that was edible?" she gawped, swallowing a lump of bile, her mouth parched.

"I didn't."

Bulma sighed and surveyed the surroundings. At least the snow was gone. After four hundred miles, it should have been. But how strange it was for the area to change so dramatically. Four hundred miles was the size of a small country. Antarctica was huge and almost had the same climate running all the way through it. It didn't make sense. She hugged her legs, crushing the bag against her chest. There was a lot of cracking and snapping going on behind her. If another creature came leaping out, she would be defenceless, again. Slyly, she peeped over her shoulder, and saw nothing but purple trees. They were pretty, but it didn't distract her from how creepy the place was. Her body tensed as she forcibly turned back.

"Hn. Pathetic," the Saiyan commented, looking away.

Her stomach growled again, eager for something—_anything _to eat. She hadn't eaten in two days, but the thought of eating anything made her feel sick. She tore the bag and took out the capsule case again, cracking it open, revealing twelve shiny capsules with her company logo on them. The sight of the logo stirred sadness in her heart. _Home_ … One of the capsules had a red label on it, which meant it contained food, but it was nothing special. It wasn't like roast beef, drizzled in steaming gravy was going to appear. She peeled it free from the container and clicked the top, releasing a single bag of dried beef jerky. Any other time she would have enjoyed a greasy bag of beef jerky, but now, it wasn't having the desired effect. She could feel the Saiyan watching her as she popped the bag open and pulled out a handful of the dried meat. It looked grey, despite the use by date ranging for another two years.

Did it always look this gross?

She brought a slither close to her lips, the salty smell drifting up her nose, making her swallow another lump of rising bile. She opened her mouth and quickly placed it on her tongue, snapping her mouth shut and chewing.

"No wonder the human race are a bunch of weaklings," he said, frowning at her and shaking his head with severe distaste. Whatever it was she was eating, it looked like it had barely enough protein in it to strengthen an ant, let alone an Earthling. If she kept eating food like that, she wasn't going to last out another day. That was her own doing, though.

Bulma swallowed, somehow gaining a slight appetite for more, and she dug her hand into the bag. It wasn't going to last her long, she knew that. She stopped scarfing, a mouthful of food, and looked at what food supplies she had left. Three dried punnets of apricots, two mango, an energy drink, and two more bags of beef jerky. That wasn't going to last her another _day_, let alone seven. She sighed through her nose, rolled the bag up and recaptured it in a capsule. When she looked back at the Saiyan, he had his eyes closed. Whether he was sleeping or not, she didn't know, but the notion of him not being awake if something attacked her again sent her skin tingling with anxiety. She should have been more anxious about whether _he_ was going to attack her again. That possibility had a greater outcome.

She watched him for a while, taking in his broad shoulders, the protective chest plate. She wondered if it was real gold. What kind of warrior had she been paired up with, exactly? One who wore gold, evidently. Did all the warriors wear this kind of thing? Her mind drifted to all the other 'teams' and what they were doing right now. Did the other warriors try and kill their partner? Probably. Maybe. She didn't know. For all she knew, they could be holding hands, skipping to where the next dragon ball was in a whirlwind of bliss and warmth. More than likely, though, they were being treated like scum. She worried about Chichi. She'd probably been paired with a huge brute, who kicked her around and much worse. Suddenly Bulma felt quite lucky with her warrior.

_Her _warrior? That didn't sound right.

She closed her eyes and tried to settle, but the cogs in her mind wouldn't stop turning. The problem with having such intelligence meant that it was difficult to switch off, not when there was so much to think about. There were so many questions. Like, why, when the Saiyan was so adamant about searching for the next dragon ball straight away, was he quite content with resting now? None of it was making sense. Something, other than those stupid rules set by Frieza, was going on. What was she really doing? Her brow furrowed. She was going to try and find a way to get the device off her leg. That was it.

She opened her eyes again, stretched out her leg across the damp grass, unlaced a boot and kicked it off, inspecting the anklet. She spat on her thumb and rubbed the dry blood away, picking and scratching the crumbling remnants on her skin. The skin surrounding it was tender and too painful to touch with very little pressure. It was funny—until she looked at it, she barely knew the anklet was there anymore. It was slowly becoming a part of her and she'd only been wearing it for a day. The device was a ring of metal, trapped around her ankle, and when she looked closely, she could see the intricate details on it. It was quite fascinating. There was a tiny green light glowing on the back of it. She assumed it indicated the life in it, or … the life in her. Would it flash red if she died?

She changed her mind; she didn't want to look at it anymore. Quickly she put the boot back on and drew her legs into her chest again.

The Saiyan _must_ have been asleep, because she'd made quite a bit of noise and he hadn't stirred. It was too quiet to sleep. She'd grown accustomed to the sound of the other prisoners breathing or snoring, or the bust pipe letting water tap onto the floor. There was barely a breeze in the air. Even the cracking sound had disappeared.

Hours passed and Bulma could see light emerging, bringing the forest to life. She rubbed her tired eyes. The Saiyan had been asleep the entire time. _It must have been the huge meal he ate. _As the daylight broke through the space between the branches, Bulma glanced around. Even in the light, the trees were purple with blue leaves. They looked so beautiful. They almost looked edible, like a kind of dessert. The grass was blue too. The majority of the natural life in this forest was different shades of blue. No wonder her eyes could hardly adjust in the darkness. Just out of curiosity, she took the radar from her pocket, switched it on.

It bleeped.

"What the …" she mused aloud as the orange dot flashed against the green screen. All of a sudden she felt like retching.

"What is it?" the Saiyan grumbled, coming back to life.

Bulma blinked in astonishment, looking over at the Saiyan, who was standing tall, stretching his limbs. He came bounding over, his feet thumping into the marshy dirt, the soft sponge muting the harsh footsteps.

"The dragon ball has moved."

"What? Don't be absurd," he said, snatching the device from her nimble fingers.

Again, he didn't have the faintest clue what the radar was reading. He grunted and handed it back.

She gave him a quick glare, before returning to the radar. "It's definitely moved. It was one hundred miles west of here, as of last night. Now it's only eighty five."

He shrugged. "I must have flown further than I expected then. What is a measly fifteen miles?" Why did he have to put up with such idiocy?

"No, I don't think so." She had a gut feeling about something. The time she had spent, sitting awake in the forest, she had been thinking a lot about how easy it had been to find the first ball. "I think someone has it …" she mumbled, staring distantly at the screen.

The Saiyan's eyes lit up and he grinned. "Good. I'll finally get a chance to fight against another warrior," he said, cracking his knuckles.

_Is he crazy?_ Bulma gulped. Either that or he was a complete idiot. There was the bait, glowing on the screen, and he was going straight in, snapping his jaw. It had to have been a trap. She was convinced.

"Get up. We're going," he said and started trudging through the forest.

"Wait," Bulma said, gathering her things and running after him. There was a slight sting in her leg but it was manageable. Before she threw the bag onto her shoulders, she grabbed the small case, snapped it open and took out a capsule.

They walked for twenty minutes before they came across a clearing. It was a wide field of lush blue grass, shimmering in the sunlight, almost like the calm water of an open lake. Momentarily taken aback by the beauty, Bulma stopped and watched the sky. It was clear. The weather was so dramatically different now, as if they were half way across the planet.

The Saiyan stopped almost as soon as she did, turning round with agitated curiosity. Bulma clicked the yellow labelled capsule and threw it. The vehicle was released with an explosive puff of smoke, and a mechanical screech. As the smoke cleared, Bulma held onto her breath, awaiting what kind of vehicle would emerge. She hoped it was a high flying ship, or a hover vehicle at least.

The Saiyan's mouth was open slightly, watching the machine appear in front of him out of a tiny capsule.

There, before them, was a single-seated air craft, able to withstand four hundred pounds of air pressure. Bulma ran over to it, squealing excitedly. She couldn't believe it. It was blue too. Perfect camouflage in this environment. She hugged the wing of the air craft and closed her eyes tight. She was a genius.

"What the … What the fuck is this? How … Never mind," he said, huffing.

"It's a ship," Bulma stated matter-of-factly.

"No shit," he snarled. He looked the vehicle up and down, weighing it in his mind.

"Now I can get around quicker."

"Is that so." He crossed his arms.

"Yeah. The next dragon ball is eighty three miles away. We'll be there in no time," she said confidently, even though that was the last place she wanted to travel to.

He invaded her space, glowering at her. "_I _will go ahead. _You_ will follow, is that clear, human?"

"Ok, fine." She nodded, accepting the conditions, because she didn't like the thought of him choking her again, and climbed into the ship.

* * *

They had to stop a couple miles shy of the dragon ball's destination, because if there was someone guarding it, they didn't want them to know they were here. The air craft engine rumbled loudly. It would give them away far too easily.

Bulma gasped, astounded by the intense climate change once again. In a range of five hundred miles, she'd been subjected to sub-zero temperatures, to temperatures reaching about forty degrees. What kind of planet could withstand that? She stripped both her jackets off and tied them around her waist, following the Saiyan, who was walking up ahead. She didn't want to hold his hand or anything, but he kept walking a bit too far ahead. It set her on edge all the time. From this far back, she couldn't determine the exact distance between them. Even a millimeter out of the boundary, and they could both die. The thought of her combusting into a pile of ash clawed through her mind.

Her feet scraped across the desperately dry ground, kicking lumps of red clay, as they reached the top of a hill, which overlooked an old shanty town. The Saiyan crouched. She copied. Down below, the tiny buildings were shaped like domes, all a similar dark brown colour to blend in with the surrounding area. The streets were empty. There was not a single sign of life. There was rubble everywhere, collapsed buildings, piles of rubbish. Whatever had happened here, it had happened some time ago. Everything looked so neglected. Also, Bulma couldn't see a single car, or any form of transport, for that matter. This town was set out a bit. The people who lived here must have been an exclusive group. She felt bereaved all of a sudden, as she imagined a bustling, close-knit community.

The radar showed the ball to be moving within the town. Only slightly, but it was definitely moving. Hands shaking, Bulma slid the radar into her back pocket, then wiped the sweat from her brow. It was too hot to even think straight. There wasn't a single cloud in the sky, now.

Abruptly, the Saiyan got to his feet and paced down the gritty hill, leaving a cloud of red dust behind him. Bulma quickly followed, tripping over a large stone and tumbling down to the bottom. She regained her standing, patting herself down. Her disgusting grey t-shirt was now covered in red dust. _Great_. She wasn't fazed by the fall. Perhaps she was getting stronger.

"Idiot," the Saiyan huffed as he marched past, headed for an ally, which he guessed lead into the town.

"Don't you think we should be a bit more cautious going in there?" she said, whirling around to check for any uninvited guests.

"No," he said firmly.

"But I just—"

He turned. "No, but I _do_ think you should shut up. If someone _is _in there, and you keep running your big mouth, they will find _us_ before we find _them_."

Bulma snapped her mouth close. He was right-because the town was so small and confined, any sound would bounce off the walls and travel to the other side. She shifted the backpack to a more comfortable position and carried on after him, a little less confidence in her stride.

They passed through a narrow alley way, the sound of her breathing tight and close to her ears, the hot air making it difficult to concentrate on whatever it was the Saiyan was doing. His shoulders drew together a bit as they approached the end of the alley. Her breathing became shorter and quicker, her hands curling around the straps of the backpack, ready for an encounter, or to run. She didn't want to check the radar again, because the bleeping would give them away. She kept her eyes on the floor, watching out for bits of rubble and trash. There were so many familiar products on the floor. A can, which she nearly tripped on, looked like pet food, with a scratched out picture of a creature resembling a domestic animal on it. Unless it was a native? She also stepped over an empty bag with some sort of vegetable on the front, an orange vegetable with a similar shape to a butternut.

They made it out of the entrance and out into the town. It was a mess. Rubbish discarded in every corner, windows broken, glass on the floor, planks of wood. And the smell was rancid. It actually smelled like something had died. Bulma's eyes followed the trail of destruction, and widened in horror when they landed on a giant pile of bones. She trembled backwards, trying hard not to scream.

Oblivious to the mass of bones, the Saiyan continued, treading lightly now, through the town, cautiously scanning the building tops and—every so often—over his shoulder. Not once did he look at Bulma. She wasn't much of his concern as long as she stayed alive and kept out of his way.

All she could look at was his back, and in a moment of ignorance, she wondered why his clothes were so tight.

They walked like this for a couple more minutes, when the Saiyan came to a standstill. Bulma almost walked into the back of him, nonplussed by his action. She was itching to check the radar, just a peek, to see how close they were. Her nerves shattered when she heard something been toppled over, something heavy, like a wooden cabinet. Instinctively, she stood further back behind the Saiyan.

The sound came from a larger building, about thirty feet away to the left, less rounded than the others. If it once was a town, then this building looked like the town hall, or something. Bulma chewed the inside of her cheek, waiting. The Saiyan clenched his fists, taking a stance.

It was really happening.

"Whoever is in there, you better come out now, before I blast the place to oblivion," he shouted raucously.

The sound really did travel around the entire town.

No one came out. All Bulma could hear was the Saiyan breathing harder. She wanted to crawl into a hole and hide, but there was no hole to hide in, and she _had_ to stay close to him. The sun was bleaching everything, so she could barely see as it bounced off a pane of glass into her eyes.

An instant later, something came tumbling into view, right in front of them. _Someone._ It was a Namekian. He collapsed onto his hands and knees, purple blood trailing out of his mouth, draining onto the dirt. Bulma gasped; the need to run over and help was too overwhelming. The Saiyan wasn't looking at the Namekian, though. He was still focusing on the doorway of the building.

Angry tears bubbled in her eyes at the sight of the Namekian. It didn't look like he had been given any supplies like she had, and there was much more blood on his leg from the device. He was wearing the same clothes from the prison, except they were mere straggles of material, clinging on to his battered skin. What had happened to him? The Namekian looked right at her, and Bulma made an unfamiliar noise, like a strangled laugh. His eyes were watering, and he mouthed 'help me' to her.

She choked, crouching now, her legs wobbly as if the bones had been reduced to a substance similar to plasticine.

"Ah, I thought I recognised that voice," a squeaky voice called out from the shadowy doorway.

Slowly, a tall figure stepped out across the dirt, its skin purple and its eyes a bright, luminous green. Its armour was different, almost chalk-like, covering his head and chest. It was horrifying. It stood in the centre of what used to be a walk way, close to the Namekian, and stood confidently with its legs shoulder-width apart, a dragon ball tucked under its arm.

The Saiyan bared his teeth. "I thought this place smelled like shit. I guess we know the root cause for it now," he barked, his feet digging into the ground.

The creature laughed. "Oh, don't flatter me, monkey. Isn't this interesting … Frieza's favourite pet condemned to death. What an odd thing to do, don't you think?" He grinned, his fish-like lips spreading wide across his face.

The Saiyan cracked his neck. "Hn. Say what you want, but I'm not the one who's going to be dying, _Pui Pui."_

_Pui Pui? What kind of name is Pui Pui?_

It sounded like the kind of name you'd give to a cat. This wasn't a cat, though. It was a warrior, and by the looks of it, even more fierce than the Saiyan. Bulma kept low, holding the backpack tight.

Pui Pui outstretched his arm, aiming right at Bulma. Horror trickled down her spine like wet paint and she froze, unable to move a muscle.

"No? How about _her_, then?" he bellowed. "We all know how that will end."

The Saiyan leaned forward, pointing a fist at Pui Pui. "You coward! That snivelling insect isn't even a fraction of a challenge." Spittle flew out of his mouth, and sparkled in the hot air.

He looked so pent up. She could tell that he was dying to rip this Pui Pui guy apart, but he was holding back. For some reason, she almost wanted to shout for him to get that guy, but then, the Namekian … She glanced over. He was still lying on the floor, watching the two warriors argue. Is this what she had become—a weak spectator to a battle that determined whether she lived or died? Two God-like creatures sparring, for what looked like sport, and all the while she was left to sit and watch.

After a few back and forth comments, Pui Pui put his hand up to silence the Saiyan. Bulma had already made up her mind. She knew what she was going to do. As soon as they started battling it out, she would run over and help the Namekian as best as she could. Was it a fruitless effort, though?

She had to do _something_.

"Fine, Vegeta. Have it your way," Pui Pui grumbled, reluctantly placing the dragon ball on the floor, and making a fighting stance, bringing both his fists up defensively.

Beyond the fact that they were about to engage in battle, and despite the fact that Bulma was quivering in terror, she was partly distracted, staring at the back of the Saiyan, except, he wasn't just _The Saiyan_ anymore.

He was Vegeta.


	4. Chapter 4 - Day One

Chapter Four – Day One  
One of Many

The hot air closed them in, keeping them contained within the dry walls of the abandoned town, like they were the only people left on the planet, the bizarre planet with a multitude of climates all crammed into a small space. It was hard to make out the two shapes standing, bracing themselves for battle, as a cloud of red dust loomed at their feet, shrouding Bulma's view to the point where it hurt to look. She didn't want to look. In the next hour, she could be dead. Less than that. How long did it take to fight someone?

With an impulsive crack, the two warriors collided, their bodies hovering off the ground, a swirl of dust following their moves. An instant presented itself, and Bulma took it, bolting the few meters to the Namekian who was struggling to stay awake. She slid across the dirt, meeting the wounded scientist, flinging her bag to her front.

A sharp, deafening ping bounced into her ear drums as a window smashed and exploded on the ground. She flashed a glance at the warriors, hoping they were fighting low and within range of her, otherwise she would be dead. Strangely, she lost the interest in her own life. Seeing the wounded Namekian was enough to make her forget about her own fate. She had to help this one. She couldn't see them fighting, anyway. They were moving so quick. All she could see were bits of the walls crumbling, and feel the ground shaking tremendously.

Her attention was swiftly drawn back to the Namekian. He lay on the floor, cradling his leg. Why didn't he have a pair of boots, as well? She swallowed a lump in her throat and hastily unzipped the bag. There had to be something in there to help the Namekian. She looked at his eyes. They were blood shot, purple veins clawing at the darkening pupils. "What did he do to you?" she couldn't help but utter.

His eyes closed for a moment, the pain clearly too much. "This game … Is not as it seems," he whispered.

Bulma leaned forward, her arm deep in the bag. "What?"

"It's not as it seems." He coughed up clots of blood, grimacing afterwards.

"What do you mean?" She looked over her shoulder again, the fight continuing.

The Namekian held Bulma's arm, and buzz of electricity pulsed through her veins. She was suddenly transported to another place, through a tunnel of pitch blackness. The light opened up, and she was in a field covered in black roses. In the centre of the field, a dark figure stood, but she couldn't make out who it was, or what it was. She started to run towards the figure, thorns snagging at her legs, but when she reached them the figure dissipated into a thick cloud of black smoke.

Like a camera panning back, she zoomed to reality, warped by what had just happened. She was back in the hot deserted town, kneeling in front of the Namekian, his face contorted with gripping pain.

Bulma's mouth was dry, as was her brain. "What did you just do? What the hell has just happened?"

The Namekian coughed again. "What did you see?" he said, letting go of her arm.

She absently searched the ground, her eyes shifting rapidly. "I don't know."

He sighed. He had hoped for more.

Bulma saw the great disappointment on his face, and she tried to recollect the madness of what had happened. "I saw … I saw a field with black roses, and a person, no, a creature … I don't know." She frowned, hopelessly searching for the right words. What did this Namekian expect her to say? She didn't know what was real anymore. She blinked, bringing all her senses back together.

A beam of energy buzzed past them both, flying straight into an empty building. It took a few seconds for the effects to take place, but the building, like someone on stilts who'd be knocked from the bottom, came plummeting down.

Bulma didn't have time to think. She grabbed the Namekian and dragged him backwards until she fell back from the weight. The building missed them by quite a distance, but she couldn't take the chance. Her breathing was heavy now from the adrenalin. She rummaged in her bag for a sensu bean, but she couldn't find it.

"Shit," she said, toppling all the contents on the floor, including the dragon ball.

The Namekian's eyes shone when he caught sight of the prize, but he was too weak to do anything.

Bulma knew that when someone was injured, or falling out of consciousness, the best thing to do was to keep them talking. "Where did you land?"

The Namekian looked at her accusingly. Why did she want to know such useless information? "Not far from here. Two hundred miles, perhaps."

It was very clear to Bulma that the Namekian's English was a lot better than it was before. He was right: the game wasn't all it seemed. "Your English—it's improved," she said, her eyes narrowing.

The Namekian coughed again, this time hocking a handful of blood. Bulma winced, withdrawing. "What happened to you?"

"That warrior—"

A loud roar erupted, causing Bulma and the Namekian to drop their futile conversation and look towards the warriors. What she saw, she knew, would haunt her for the rest of her life. Suspended ten feet from the ground, was Vegeta, holding Pui Pui in what looked like a head lock. The shrilling scream that left Pui Pui was soul wrenching, but what was more tormenting, was the look on Vegeta's face. He was smiling, sadistically, as he squeezed harder, his biceps looking like they were going to pop. She couldn't see the damage clearly, but Vegeta looked pretty roughed up, mentally and physically.

She held her breath, trying to force the anticipation of a victory to the back of her mind. She didn't want _anyone_ to die, but something about Pui Pui set a rage within her. What he had done to the Namekian wasn't even worth half the pain he was enduring.

There was a dull crack, and Pui Pui's body, previously wriggling and animated from trying to escape Vegeta's grasp, hung limply. Vegeta grinned and let the body drop to the floor, listening out for the cracking of more bones as it collided with a puff of red dust. He descended back to the ground, kicking the lifeless body of his opponent, just for good measures.

Bulma couldn't even blink. Her hands were shaking as she dropped the bag and turned to the Namekian, who was staring at Pui Pui's carcass. His eyes were fixed on its tormentor. Bulma touched his shoulder. "Are you OK?" she said.

The Namekian was still alive, even despite the rules and the anklet. The _anklet_. She looked at it, the light, green on the back. Nothing had changed. Everything was as it was. What was going on? Was it a glitch? She got to her feet, shaking a little, and held her hand out. "C'mon, we have to get out of here, now," she said, unsure what she was doing.

The Namekian shook his head, his mouth agape.

Bulma felt an itch of irritation. "C'mon, _now_." She pulled at his arm, but he somehow mustered the strength to wrench free of her hold.

He blinked a few times, long green eyelashes fluttering, stared at the anklet, which was now glowing red, and then he looked to Bulma, whose eyes were shining with unshed tears. "Trust … no-one," he said, and shot a certain glance at Vegeta, before his entire body started to rack violently, his limbs thrashing on the ground. He rolled onto his hands and knees, took fist-fulls of the dirt and hammered it back down, dust spurting into the air. The screams were indescribable. His eyes filled with purple blood and oozed out of the tear ducts, and then out of his mouth like flowing water. He cried out in a foreign language, his life being drained by the hands of Frieza.

Bulma sobbed, covering her mouth with both hands, her eyes filling up with so much water that it was like she was looking through frosted glass. This shouldn't be happening. She'd never seen anything like it in her life.

The blood died the orange ground to a deep brown colour, a huge puddle gathering, until it stopped abruptly and the Namekian collapsed, without moving another muscle.

Everything Bulma had ever imagined, left a window in her mind, only leaving the image before her now. The only thing she could see now was a dead body, and it felt like she had done it. She was part of a team, and because of that, this innocent creature had to die. Because of _her_. Without warning, her stomach gargled and brought up a mouthful of bile, making her fall to her knees and retch. The smell was putrid, the dead bodies already cooking in the sun. She felt dizzy as the tears unyieldingly controlled her. The moment she stopped crying would be the moment it all sank in properly, and it would all become real.

"Get up," a familiar, unwelcome voice said.

His blood spattered boot was visible in her peripheral.

A long idle second passed by, as Bulma sat covering her face from the sight of death.

"Get _up_," Vegeta said again.

"He's … dead," she said, her voice croaking.

Vegeta looked at the dead body, and looked at the Earth woman, his facial features impassive. Of course they were dead. If _they _weren't dead … then he would be … and she would be. Was this woman so dim to understand the point of the game? She was hunched up like a primordial creature, a weak creature that had obviously not seen a dead body before. Or had she? The sun was beating on his back, the heavy armour making him sweat uncontrollably.

"Earthling, I said _get up_," he said, vowing it would be the last time, before he dragged her tiny frame along with him.

"But they're dead!" she screamed, swivelling round, revealing her tear stained face to him, her eyes red, mucus smeared under her nose.

Partially stunned by the ferocity of her voice, Vegeta's mouth opened a bit. Again, he had to remind himself that the anklet was in control. _Frieza_ was in control. He couldn't kill this woman because of that, but she was making it a mentally strenuous task. Killing Pui Pui was too easy, and Pui Pui was an elite warrior. Killing her would take little to no effort, at all. That wasn't an option, though. He clenched his jaw, evaded her gaze.

"One of many. Now take the dragon ball and get off the floor, you pathetic piece of shit," he said, throwing a seven star ball in her lap, making her jump.

She wiped her nose, and breathed calmly. As much as she hated Vegeta, he was right. Not about her being a pathetic piece of shit, because she was far from that. She'd just seen him crack an opponent's neck with a haunting smile on his face, so she didn't want to argue against him. But, he was right. She was going to see more of this, so she had to up her game, meaning she had to become ignorant to people dying.

That wasn't what she meant.

She didn't know what she meant. So much had happened in a tiny fraction of time. Actually, how long had it been? An entire day would have passed, but it wouldn't have mattered. Not now, anyway. As much as she wanted to move, her body wouldn't allow it. She couldn't leave a body. Never, in all her life, had she seen someone die so brutally. The image wouldn't leave her mind. It was glued.

Permanent.

She placed her hands on her lap, the harsh heat blistering the tops of her arms.

Vegeta took the time to pick the flecks of Pui Pui's blood from his chest plate. He didn't realise he'd drawn so much. Most of his attacks were aimed to cause more internal damage, yet he was plastered with disgusting traces of that ugly weakling's blood. A few seconds passed by and the Earthling had yet to rouse herself from a state of post traumatic transfixion. He didn't have time for it. Not now. Not ever. He'd call her bluff.

"Fine. You sit nice and comfortably, while I go find the other dragon balls," he said, turning on his heel and pacing back through the desolate town.

Whatever he just said, she barely heard it. Every sound, apart from the Namekian's foreign cries for help, whirring and whirring, had become nothing but a crackle, like a poor radio reception. She sniffed, vacuuming the dripping mucus from her nasal passage, and briefly looked over her shoulder to see what Vegeta was doing. He was about twenty yards away, pacing with purpose. It wasn't like he was going to get anywhere. He couldn't. She looked back again. He was still walking. Now half way into their space entitlement, and it felt like the walls were closing in. What was he trying to prove? Her fingers drummed on her thighs as she watched him walk further on, a couple heat waves distorting his figure. _He isn't seriously_ … He was literally about ninety meters away from her now, about to turn down the same alleyway they came out of before. She could just about see the pile of skeletons. The gruesome landmark.

The malicious grin, when Vegeta cracked Pui Pui's neck, flashed into her mind.

The lack of motivation ebbed and she shot up, thinking it better to not look back at the dead bodies around her, and she ran as fast as her body would allow, taking the backpack and the two dragon balls with her, her tears completely dried up in the boiling heat. She trundled down the alleyway, stopping a few meters shy of him. He didn't stop, or turn round, or even grace her with a side glance. It was as if she didn't exist. Truthfully, she felt happier that way for the moment. She'd rather mean nothing to him, than have him give as much attention to her as he did Pui Pui.

Against the blinding sun light, Vegeta's body was a black mass. The only way she knew it was him was his hair, the gravity defying peak, pointing towards the sky. It looked stupid. She frowned and turned her focus to the dirt floor again, passing the same items. The empty food cans and packets. But something shone in the corner of her eye, and like a magpie, she was drawn to it. She stopped, breathing steady, and saw it properly. It was silver, sharp. Sharp enough to defend with. She bent down, snatched it and shoved it in the bag. A knife. She'd found a _knife_. Never had she felt so relieved to find a knife. It was small, but it would pack a punch. She carried on nonchalantly, not that Vegeta had even glanced her way.

The steep, rocky embankment they travelled down on the way looked a lot more daunting than it did before. Bulma bit her lip, as Vegeta easily made his way up, creating a slight downfall of tiny stones and dust in the process. It loomed over her, taunting her, knowing she had no chance with the shred of energy she had left. She thought about taking the other sensu bean she had, then she'd be up that hill in a flash, but then she'd have none left. Besides, she couldn't find it. It probably fell out the bag when she was being dragged through the snow.

The hill wasn't particularly high, but after everything that had happened, she couldn't do it. She hated thinking she was incapable of doing anything, but this was tiring just looking at it. She shook her head, mentally berating herself, and nodded in affirmation, before taking four bounding steps forward. Those four steps knocked everything out of her, and she fell onto her hands and knees, scrambling to get further, sharp stones jabbing palms. Dust was creeping into her lungs, making her dry mouth absolutely moisture free, and forcing exasperated breaths. The heat made her skin agonisingly itchy. She just wanted to pick her clothing off and throw it back down the hill, but she continued. Somehow. She slipped down a few inches, only to clamber back up again until she stepped carelessly on a bit of unsteady earth again, over and over in a vicious circle. Finally, she glimpsed the top, throwing her body towards it, latching onto a clump of spikey weeds for leverage.

She'd made it.

Incongruous laughter left her body as she lay flat out at the top of the hill, which overlooked the place where her nightmares would reside. She was numb from everything, from the heat, the pain in her legs, the sound of Vegeta chuckling darkly beside her. She sat up slowly, wincing, her head spinning to see where he was. There, next to a slight coverage of trees, was Vegeta, staring at the aircraft she'd travelled in.

Getting up, laboriously making her way towards him, her breath hitched when she noticed what he was laughing at. Her ship had been vandalised. Claw marks, made with three talons, had scrawled right down the length of the ship. The pulse under Bulma's skin quickened. That wasn't everything, though. On the bonnet, there was three words scratched meticulously, reading '_Death is coming_'. Bulma couldn't think of anything to do other than laugh along with Vegeta, but as soon as she started, he stopped. Her laughter petered out, and she gulped.

"Is someone here?" she asked, haphazardly surveying the area. She was too exhausted. She hadn't slept properly for days.

He shook his head. "If someone had come to kill you, they would have easily picked you off while you collapsed miserably up that hill." He rubbed one of the claw marks with his thumb, and shrugged.

Bulma sighed, her pulse regulating again.

Vegeta looked like he was about to say something, but he stopped and walked away from the ship, crossing his arms. He only casually remarked, "The next dragon ball. Where is it, human?"

The way he said that really pinched her skin. Narrowing her eyes, she calculated what the chances were of her actually accumulating the energy to go on another—possibly eight hour—journey. There wasn't much chance. While he slept soundly last night, she was wide awake, trying hard to ignore the sounds of potential mutant creatures coming to kill her. She needed rest.

"I can't," she finally stated.

They locked eyes.

"_What?_" he said, approaching.

She closed her eyes, but had to open them again for fear of actually falling asleep.

Vegeta watched her, the way she barely held her body up, the way her face was drained of colour. He clenched his fists. Why? Just _why?_ He didn't want to think about it too much, because something bad would happen, so he closed his eyes and exhaled, allowing the rage to subside. They were a day in and had retrieved two dragon balls. It was quite a satisfactory rate, but he would rather have the whole thing done and dusted in a couple days, rather than drag it out. But this Earth woman was dragging him down.

"An hour. Just give me an hour, please," she said, her eyes shining with promise.

Something about it rendered him momentarily speechless, before he dropped back down to sanity. "No chance. Get your little radar out, locate the next dragon ball, and get on your fucking way," he sneered.

Bulma focused on the deep frown engraved in his brow. "I can't. Vegeta, please."

His eyes flickered, unmasking a moment of unguarded behaviour. He looked surprised for a split second, before placing his hard, stone mask on again. She shouldn't be calling him by his name. That wasn't what he wanted. Nothing about this could be personal. They were stuck together unwillingly. Names were unnecessary. Without thinking, he charged at her, picked her up by the scruff of her t-shirt, opened the roof of the ship, and threw her in.

Bulma didn't even have enough energy to put up even a little bit of a fight, not that it would have made any difference. Her head hit the soft cushion of the ship's upholstery seats, and it was all it took to pull her under, the scent of home taking her back.

* * *

_"Alright already, it's almost done." Bulma laughed, nursing a dozen spitting steaks on the barbecue, flipping them over. They were cooked on the outside, but still relatively raw on the inside, even though the majority of the guests would've been happy to eat them as 'blue' steaks. The thought made her queasy. The weather was working in her favour today: sunny, but not too hot, with a slight breeze. Standing over the grill was cancelling out the nice warm weather, though, the heat and smoke making her cough._

_"B, we've been waiting for ages," Yamcha said, giving her a peck on the cheek and taking over the maintenance of the barbecue._

_She smiled, leaning her head on his shoulder. "You take care of it, then. I'm gonna ring Chichi. She should've been here by now. I mean, it's half four already," she said, digging into her jeans pocket for her cell phone._

_She paced across the lawn and past her mother, who was holding a tray of cakes. She'd already told Bunny that she wasn't to bring the cakes out until after the others had eaten. Now they were just going to eat them all, with no room for the real food. Bulma rolled her eyes, but was far more distracted dialling Chichi's number and holding her phone to her ear._

_'Hi, this is Chichi-'_

_"Hi, Chi, it's Bulma-"_

_'I'm not here at the moment, but if you leave a message, I'll get back to you as soon as I can.'_

_Bulma heaved a sigh of disappointment. That was the third time she'd been directed to voice mail. Something wasn't right. She made sure to invite Chichi well in advance, and as far as she knew, Chichi said she was available to make it. If Bulma knew her best friend, which she did, she would have given a reason for not turning up, and would have explained prior to the event._

_"Hi, Chi, it's Bulma … again. Just wondering why you haven't shown up yet. I hope you're OK. Let me know, alright? Call back, please, Chichi," she said, hoping she did sound so desperate. But when your best friend says they're going to show up, it's very unusual for them not to._

_"Everything alright, Bulma?"_

_She spun round, composing her furrowed brow, to see Krillin with a half-eaten burger in his hand. He smiled, but it was polite, not genuine._

_"Yeah, well … um … No, actually. Chichi should be here now. I'm a little worried," she blushed. Now it sounded like she was overreacting._

_Krillin laughed. "No kidding," then he realised that Bulma was being serious, and he frowned, a bit too much. "Well, yeah, she should be here, but, you know, she's probably just caught up in traffic or something."_

_Bulma cocked a finely plucked eyebrow._

_Krillin chuckled nervously. "Or work. Yeah, working. She's always working." He honestly didn't know what to say to Bulma. Sure, Chichi wasn't here yet, but she wasn't the life and soul of the party, and it wasn't like it was the first time she hadn't showed up to something. Since Goku … Chichi hadn't really been in the right frame of mind to attend these get together things with friends. It reminded her too much. He felt for Bulma, though. She was trying really hard to get Chichi back to normality._

_Bulma sighed, seeing two circular objects flying through the sky in her peripheral. The smell of burnt steak brought her back to life, and she sprinted to her boyfriend, who was supposedly looking after the now blackened, charcoal encrusted steaks.  
_

* * *

Bulma opened her eyes to a bruise-blue sky; dark and clear. She felt calm, her entire body relaxed, like waking up from a long restful night of sleep. For a delirious moment, she thought she was back home, lying in her bed, but the reality of the day came plunging back, sucking any shred of happiness in her mind. It was quiet, again. Any notion of silence was deemed negative now. She needed to know that Vegeta was still there. But, of course, he was somewhere close, otherwise …

She closed her eyes, hoping to return to the strange dream she'd just had.

_Chichi_.

She needed to know everything was OK, even if it was a two second phone call. Any form of contact with Chichi would be a blessing right now.

That wasn't going to be possible, though, was it?

It dawned on her how dark the sky actually was. She shot up, pressing her face against the glass. How long had she been asleep? She only meant for an hour, but by the looks of it she'd been out cold for the entire afternoon. She stretched her arms to the ceiling, just grazing the roof of the aircraft. It _felt_ like she'd been asleep for hours, too. Her energy had replenished. If she was presented with a challenge now, her knees wouldn't buckle under the pressure. Not to say that she would be able to put up a decent fight, but she could stand, at least.

She leisurely took the dragon radar out of her pocket and clicked it a few times, her lazy eyes scanning the screen. A yawn pushed its way up her throat but was caught short when the radar bleeped. There it was—the third ball. Right before her eyes, yet again. The fresh colour in her cheeks must have drained because she felt sick all of a sudden. She'd hardly had the chance to recuperate from the last stint and now she had to go on another wild chase, and face another opponent. It was too suspicious. All of it. It had been a day, and everything was falling in to place too easily. Looking at the radar, the glow of the newly found dragon ball, she was starting to work out what was going on.

Leaning forward, she opened the window and took a look around. Vegeta was right by the ship, fast asleep, his arms crossed, and _standing?_ It looked funny. Perhaps he was just resting his eyes, but, then, he would have woken her up ages ago, his eagerness to fight overpowering the rest of his sense. She took a deep breath and cracked the door open, alerting Vegeta straight away. He blinked warily, before straightening his body, almost as if he was feigning his slip-up slumber.

"Where is the next dragon ball?" he blurted out, as Bulma stepped on the harsh ground.

The heat wasn't half as intense as it had been before. Again, it was so bizarre. Usually, the heat would only decrease marginally in such a hot area, but this was a massive decrease. It was easy to walk around in, similar to the temperatures back home.

"Six hundred miles East," she said, absentmindedly casting a glance in that direction, like the dragon ball was a mere five minute walk away.

Vegeta rubbed his eyes. "C'mon, then." Taking a stance, he scowled at her, prompting her to get a move on.

She shook her head, squeezing the radar for support. "No."

"_What_ did you say?" he hissed, regarding her with heavy malice.

Bulma couldn't help but stand her ground around Vegeta, no matter what he did. And she knew what he was capable of doing. Heck, she'd received a first-hand demonstration. Still, something deep down told her that she could act confidently. "Don't you see?" She held a hand out imploringly.

He scoffed. "The only thing I see is a human arguing with a Saiyan, a Saiyan who could kill her in a split-second."

His ego had had a huge boost since defeating Pui Pui. Nothing and no one could get in his way. This game would be over soon, and he needed to make damn sure that this woman didn't prevent him from pursuing the next step. Who did she think she was, constantly biting back like a rabid dog? When it's over, he reminded himself, he would kill her first.

Bulma ground her molars together, trying hard not to spit venom at him. "We found the first dragon ball right where we landed," she said, pausing for his reaction. He didn't give her one. "Pui Pui and the Namekian had a dragon ball. The next dragon ball has been found." She pointed at the bleeping dot on the screen, which was accompanied by two yellow triangles.

Vegeta peered at the screen. "More reason for you to shut up and get a move on."

"No. Frieza has purposely chosen where to spread us out on this planet, all so we each find a dragon ball, and have to kill each other for the rest." She felt exasperated, like pulling her hair out in clumps. Why was that so hard to see? Vegeta couldn't have been _that_ dense, could he? The way he fought against Pui Pui was so meticulously carried out; she had assumed he was highly intelligent. Now she wasn't so sure.

Vegeta huffed, shifting his accusing gaze to the dark sky, surveying the empty space. Bulma noticed his arms quaking. Whether he was scared or angry, she was unsure, but she didn't like it. Her concentration was split between the sky and his hard, stony eyes.

She was caught off-guard when he next snapped, "So what?" crossing his arms, gathering back his cool façade. "Sorry, Earth-girl, but this isn't a stroll in the park, if you hadn't noticed."

Bulma blinked, perplexed by his peculiar behaviour. The beaten ground seemed more appealing. She was stuck, again, trapped between what she knew to be fact and what she was forced to do. She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to make sense of it all. Vegeta didn't care what she thought, that was too apparent. No matter what she said to him, he wasn't going to cave and let her take the reins.

That was what Frieza set out to do—create a partnership of brains and strength. So far she'd had very little say in anything, other than the radar, and had been left to trundle after him wherever he went, carrying the supplies like a pack-mule. She was Bulma Briefs, head of capsule corp …

She shrugged, losing composure. Who was she kidding? She wasn't head of capsule corp. Not anymore. She _was_, however, still a genius, and something was definitely corrupt in this game, excusing the obvious. Defeated, she climbed back into the ship, set the course for six hundred miles East, switched the ignition on and sat waiting for Vegeta to make his move.

* * *

Three hours ticked over quicker than Bulma could've imagined. When time was sparse, it flew by. The seven days of her life were dwindling away, and she felt indifferent about it all. Maybe it hadn't registered that it was happening yet, even though she'd identified her death being around the corner. They'd been flying low across a vast ocean for the most part of the journey, the sky reverting back to a hazy summer's afternoon. It was fascinating, but also totally confusing. It meant that her track of time was distorted. The days were merging, and she'd have no clue of when her time was up. Maybe that was better, though.

The sea was a crystal blue, not too deep, shining brightly under the intense glare of the sun. Keeping hold of the accelerator, Bulma took out the dragon radar, curious how far away they were from reaching their next goal. She quickly observed Vegeta, flying just in front of her, his hair fluttering back in the wind. The sight was somehow so common to her now. Dragging her attention back to the radar, she clicked it twice, waiting for the destination to be revealed. She had to rub the screen, thinking it had malfunctioned, when she read the results. It must have been broken. Surely the results hadn't changed from before.

But, _how_?

Instead of the radar showing one dragon ball, it was showing _two_, two guarded by a single team.


	5. Chapter 5 - Day One

Chapter Five – Day One  
Bruised

Another thing Bulma had noticed about planet zero-one-six-zero: There wasn't much natural land, most of it was baron, but resembled previous life, but the small patches it still had were absolutely wondrous. After travelling for over four hours, Vegeta signalled to land on a shoreline, just out of reach of the tide, which was creeping up the beach. Beyond the shoreline and the fringe of sand, there were trees, hundreds of them, so tall with a canopy branching for miles. She jumped out the ship, the new found energy making her more active than ever. She actually felt prepared for what she had to do. Not to _fight_ anyone, but she would figure something out … what with being a genius, and all.

The boots made it hard to walk properly in the sand, but once she made it into the forest cover, it was easier. Even though they had only acquired one dragon ball from another team, it felt like ritual, like they were heading in the exact same direction as they were when they found Pui Pui. Bulma knew, as soon as she took the radar out and clicked it to life, that they were going to encounter another team, and soon. As much as she told herself she wasn't as scared, her stomach churned with every step; every step closer to a new enemy. Walking behind Vegeta was difficult. The feeling of inferiority kept creeping in, no matter how much of an incredibly successful woman Bulma felt she was—being around Vegeta made her feel tiny. In fact, it made her feel like an infant. All he did was verbally chastise her if she slipped up, which, really, she didn't, or when she did something useful, he wouldn't say anything at all. She'd got to know that he wasn't going to talk to her, so she kept her mouth shut, too, regardless of how difficult it was.

The forest wasn't a forest anymore. It was a jungle. The air was too humid, and the steam was rising off the ground and large tropical plants. Everywhere was so green, not like the purple trees back in the forest. There were odd looking creatures swinging from vines, calling to one another, making Bulma quicken her pace. Vegeta didn't seem too bothered, though, strolling through, shoving branches out of his way. The creatures were an olive green, and they moved too fast, so every time she turned to catch sight of one, it had vanished amongst the rest of the foliage. She just kept in mind that if they wanted to attack her, they would've done it by now. There was a faint clicking sound, similar to a cricket, echoing throughout the entire jungle. It reminded her of the time Yamcha took her to Greece, and they sat on the balcony of their villa all evening, listening to the crickets chirp. She sighed, shutting her eyes as the memory pained her. It was a fond memory once, but now it wasn't even real anymore. The life before didn't exist.

She'd been born into this game.

Sweat was trailing down her face, sticking her bangs to her forehead. She pushed her bangs back. What she would've done for a single hair pin. Thankfully, they were so damp they just stayed back. She inwardly groaned. She must have looked like a corpse. No makeup, no deodorant. These weather conditions were decreasing and increasing left, right and centre, which was not helping at all. Malnutrition was starting to play an important role, too. No proper water supply was making her skin weak and greasy, as well as making her exhaustion rate quicker. She hadn't had a drink since … she couldn't even remember. The little bits of food she had were dry, too. Oddly enough, her bladder seemed to be working fine, as if she'd been drinking gallons of water. The last time she took a toilet break was in the woods, when she knew Vegeta was finally asleep. That was hours ago.

With so much walking and no talking, Bulma was left to ponder about things. She was finding it increasingly hard to think about anything constructive, so she just resorted to picking out all the things she missed. It wasn't a good idea. Her parents' smiling faces shone through her mind's eye, making a dry lump appear in her throat.

To distract herself, she pulled out the radar again.

"Don't touch it," Vegeta said, holding up a hand, and crouching.

She put it back in her pocket. "What is it?" she whispered, frantically looking around, trying to block out all the white noise of the jungle.

He stood up, nonchalantly brushing the dirt off his knees. "It was nothing." And he continued through the forest.

Another ten minutes passed, and Bulma could swear she felt a breeze. It was welcomed, cooling her skin. She sighed happily, sticking her arms out to catch as much of it as possible. Vegeta shifted past a huge tree trunk and stopped at an opening. Bulma followed and stopped beside him, totally agog at what she saw.

A gorge with about a two hundred meter drop, plummeting into water pools, several of them all dotted around the mammoth space.  
_  
Fresh water …  
_  
She stood right on the edge, peering down the mighty drop. It was a hell of a long way down, and there was no way she would make it by climbing, not without falling to an untimely death. She retreated, scrutinised Vegeta, who stood looking at the scenery beyond the gorge. His frown deepened. He knew something. She would've loved to get into his head for just a second, to see what he was thinking.

The sound of trickling down the rock face was enticing her to make her way down, and rejoice in the fresh water, but she couldn't. Throwing the heavy backpack to the floor, she sighed. "I can't get down there."

He gave her a side glance. "Can't, or won't?"

She laughed incredulously. "I actually can't. I'll fall, I just know it."

"You humans are a total pain in the arse," he sneered, shaking his head. He would happily push her down in a heartbeat. That brought his attention back to the anklet, and the game, and the dragon balls, and the whole reason he was stuck with this fucking Earthling in the first place. There was no time to dawdle. He hovered off the ground. "You better get a move on, if we're going to get the next dragon ball before the new millennium."

"Wait, you can't just … Really, it'll be more hassle for me to climb down."

He heard her, but what was she getting at?

Her bright blue eyes shone, glistening like some sort of gem stones. "Can't you just, fly me down there?"

He recoiled in horror. The thought of it made him want to gag. He wasn't going anywhere near her. "No, I'll do no such thing. Let me remind you that I'm not here to babysit, now climb down the fucking mountain, before I—"

"Push me? Is that what you're going to say, because I don't think that would have a good outcome, do you?" She picked her backpack off the floor, slowly slipping both straps onto each arm.

"Ach. Fine. Whatever, but this is a one-time deal, you hear me, Earth woman?" He dropped to the ground again, holding out his arm as an awkward invitation.

She wanted to correct him so badly. Her name—was not—Earth woman, or any of the other names he'd given her, but she kept her mouth zipped, as she wrapped her arms around his neck. He pulled his face as far away as possible, before wrapping an arm around her waist, and lifting off the ground. Bulma squeaked, putting all her trust into the same alien creature who strangled her only a day ago. Her grip tightened as he hovered over the gorge, purposely lingering in the air to scare her half to death. He grinned, but frowned almost twice as fast, and descended quickly down to the ground, landing with a pebbly clatter.

"Wow. That was so … cool," Bulma mused, staggering onto the new ground, kicking half a dozen shiny pebbles. Without thanking Vegeta, she turned around to absorb the scenery. She was a tiny person, encased in a rock pool. It was glorious. There were streams of water pouring out of loads of veins in the rocky walls. It circled around her. She would've killed to see something like this back home. It was unbelievable. She wanted to sit and gaze around at it all day. She bet if she shouted really loud it would echo. She opened her mouth, forming an 'O', dying to try it, but stopped, thinking better of it. Then she saw a rock pool, overflowing with beautiful, glittering liquid.

"Oh my gosh," she said, the water's reflection bouncing into her iris. "Water. Oh my gosh, oh my gosh!" Forgetting her unwanted bond to Vegeta, she ran as fast as she could, and knelt at the pools edge, her knees hitting the ground hard. Before diving in, she saw a wavy, distorted version of herself looking back through the water's crystal surface. She looked horrific. Her _hair_ was matted, and her skin was colourless. Uneasily, she placed her hand on her cheek. The reflected image was definitely her. What had happened? The last time she truly saw herself was … She didn't want to keep remembering the last time she did stuff, because that had been washed away, erased. Viciously, she hit the surface with both hands, only able to see the distant aqua colour of her hair. Instead she cupped a hand full of water and rubbed into her face and mouth. The cool liquid was refreshing, for the mind _and_ the body. It awakened her senses. She could smell the petrified rock beside her, the bitterness winding through her body. Even the water tasted sweet. It had sweetness like a coconut. It was delicious. She lapped up another handful, throwing it in her face, closing her eyes, only allowing herself to _feel_ for a moment; to forget about everything else. The feeling was good—it was calm.

"Hnnnnarrghhhhhhh."

The sound felt like it punctured Bulma's ear drums, twice over as it drifted throughout the gorge. She winced and spun round to find that Vegeta was nowhere to be seen. The oxygen was stuck in her throat, like someone was pinching a balloon, only allowing the tiniest bit of air to escape. The shout was still bouncing off the walls, trapped like an angry bee, making her disoriented. Then she saw him, or _them_, fighting just above her head, too fast for her to make out either fighter, but slow enough to know that that was what was going on. She ducked, getting into the brace position, in case either of them decided to fire a blast at her. There was nowhere to hide this time, no crevices to crawl into, and no tunnels to climb down. The open space was so terrifying now, she felt too exposed. Bulma sat trying to control her breathing, willing herself to do _something_. What could she do? Only her wits could save her, because she was no warrior. The electric tickle of fear made its way down her spine as she straightened it to stand up.

Vegeta was pressed roughly into the craggy wall, growling as the contact sent a shock of pain up his back. He finally looked into the face of his attacker, his eyes narrowing as Burter brought his pocked, slimy face close to his, sniffing.

"Do I smell fear, Vegeta?" he said, followed by a short laugh, an aroma of fish sidling into Vegeta's face.

Vegeta grimaced, pulling his face so far back that the rocks clawed his cheek. "Burter, you piece of scum. Don't you know how rude it is to sneak up on royalty?"

Burter laughed, the sound vibrating. "_Royalty_? You crack me up, Vegeta," he said, wiping a tear from his eye.

Bulma couldn't close her mouth. That warrior was wearing similar clothing to Vegeta. Did they work together? They knew each other. But so did Pui Pui. It was all too confusing. Bulma swallowed, unable to look at anything else.

"Bulma Briefs," a drawling, English accent called out to her.

She turned to see Thomas strolling over to her, his clothes just as scruffy as they were in the prison. "Thomas," she uttered, partly grateful to see another human being, more concerned about how he appeared out of thin air.

He should have been a friend, not an enemy, but she couldn't move. It wasn't like she could shake his hand; tell him how glad she was that he was alive. Even though the sight of him alive gave her hope that Chichi was alive too.

He looked her up and down, brushing his greasy blond hair back off his face. "Looks like you're kitted out. That's a nice pair of boots. Your father make them for you?" he sneered, gesturing to the boots.

She couldn't help but to glance at his ankle; it was red-raw and encrusted with blood. She blinked in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

He inspected his nails, showing little regard towards her at all. His cockiness was exacerbating. Even before all this, Bulma had seen the articles in the paper, the ones that read 'Thomas Shields claims to have created the best hover technology to date, rivalling Capsule Corp's famous Bulma Briefs.' It never did, though. Bulma and her father's selling rates always triumphed, not that that was her main concern. She just enjoyed what she did—creating and formulating new ideas. Thomas was always in it for the power and money.

A smug smile spread across his face. "We've got two dragon balls now. How many do you have?" His deep brown eyes locked on to hers.

She shook her head, trying not to heed to Vegeta's cries of agony behind her. "I don't have any," she said, staring him dead in the eye.

He guffawed, throwing his head back. "Like I believe that."

She had to derail him, somehow. He was looking at her backpack now, trying to figure it out. Obviously he was wondering how she had got hold of so many supplies. The boots, the clothing. She must have looked like royalty to him. "Where'd you find 'em?" she blurted out, grabbing his attention.

His eyes crawled up the length of her body, sizing her up for something, making her tense. He looked off to where the warriors were battling it out, and then casually said, flicking a wrist, "One was directly opposite our ship. We spotted it as soon as we landed. And the other … We had to take it by force." He shrugged, grinning, his eyes meeting hers again.

_Chichi?_

All this talk of 'we' was grating Bulma's skin. 'We had to take it by force'? Did that mean he had personally walked over to someone and took it, or was he so totally wrapped up in the idea of this game that he was referring to him and the warrior as 'we'? A single unit. A complete outfit. Bulma's so called team was Vegeta and herself—the pack mule. Nothing about it was a team. Thomas was clearly enjoying himself, and it terrified Bulma. She wasn't in the company of another human, anymore. He'd become a puppet on Frieza's stage.

"Who?" she uttered before her breath caught in her throat.

He arched an eyebrow. "_Who?_ Oh, you mean who we killed …"

She narrowed her eyes, the anticipation burning.

He smiled, the smugness dripping from him. "That dumb fuck-wit, Vadim."

Bulma's body relaxed a little. There was still a chance that Chichi was alive. But Vadim was dead. Vadim was a brilliant scientist, always reaching plateaus that Bulma couldn't dream of. His ideas were usually too radical, though. She remembered one idea where he tried to create a food source out of human and animal excretion, obsessed with the idea that the world was going to end. She was fond of Vadim. But now he was dead, because of Thomas. She closed her eyes.

She had to remember—it was Frieza's fault.

"He was too easy, really. _My _warrior destroyed his in an instant, without a single scratch to show for it. And, then, Vadim just, sort of, stopped living. Nasty business, if you ask me," he said all too cheerfully, shaking his sweaty hair out.

Frieza may have orchestrated the game, but Thomas was enjoying it way too much, treating it like it was a simple game of chess. She let her hands relax, unaware that she'd been clenching them so tight that her broken nails had bitten into her palms.

She wanted to hurt Thomas, make him endure pain. The thought was so immediate it scared her a little. "We shouldn't be doing this," she said over the sound of unintelligible shouting behind her.

"What was that, Bulma? I didn't quite catch it?"

"I said … we shouldn't be doing this," she said behind gritted teeth.

She turned to see how Vegeta was holding up, but he was losing badly by the looks of it. He was on the floor now, Burter's foot squashing his head. Vegeta's screams were hard to listen to; even despite his cruelty towards her, Bulma couldn't stand to see anyone getting hurt like that. And the swift knowledge that these moments could be her last were standing out as clear as the water she'd been drinking earlier.

"You know, Vadim wasn't my main concern, at all … but you …"

Bulma turned defiantly slow to face Thomas, who was now looking at her differently, standing a mere couple steps away from her.

"You, Briefs, _you're_ a problem."

She grasped onto the back pack, stepping back into shallow puddles of water.

"You see, _your_ death would mean so much more. My company … it would be number one. Global." His eyes shone with promise.

A blood pumping scream emanated from Vegeta, causing Bulma to spin towards him in shock. He was being lifted up by the throat, Burter was laughing so raucously, now competing against Vegeta's painful retching. There was blood all over his face, his hair was dishevelled, and his clothes were torn, even more so than before.

The panic kicked in, hard, right in the pit of Bulma's stomach. She was going to _die_.

"Sure, Burter over there can easily take care of the both of you, but somehow that isn't enough for me, I'm afraid," he growled, and before Bulma could register what he'd said, she was tackled to the floor, winded, her backpack knocked aside. She collapsed into a bed of rocks and pebbles, slicing her face on a protruding, jagged-edged stone.

She yelped, and Thomas' hands around her throat cut her screaming short, as he squeezed as hard as her could, draining the life out of her pretty eyes. His breathing was harsh, sharp exhales close to her face. And his eyes were blood shot, dangerous, with the adrenalin pumping through his veins. Bulma couldn't even choke. He'd left no room for anything. She thrashed her arms and legs, but he was sitting astride her, his bulky frame pinning her legs down. The only thing she could do was dig her hands into the wet pebbles, grabbing clods of dirt and smashing them into the side of his face.

He laughed at her poor attempt of self-defence. He expected so much more fight in Bulma Briefs.

The yellow fluid in his eyes crossed over the waterline; he looked tearful, out of his mind, even.

"If it wasn't for you … and your fucking father … I could've had _everything_," he said, spitting in her face.

She felt her eyes starting to sting, bulging out their sockets. Her chest heaved, and she closed herself off, wiping away the face of her killer.

_Never give up, ever, Bulma._

Goku's words hit her hard, and her hand dug deeper into the ground, scrambling for anything. She felt something sharp, wrapped her fingers around it, and with what little strength she had left, she yanked it out, clasped it tight and struck Thomas on the head as hard as she could.

She opened her eyes, and the sight of him on top of her, controlling the fate of her life, set a fire inside of her. She'd hit him, but not hard enough to deter him. A veil of red swept over her eyes as the light within her started to fade. She struck him again, screaming deep in her throat at the same time, her eyes bubbling with tears. He flinched this time, as blood spat out from his head, and he loosened his grip on her throat, giving her more room to strike. Suddenly she couldn't stop. She hit him again, right above his ear, and heard the crack of his concaving skull. His brown eyes became hooded and dull, but he was still on top of her, crushing her. She hit him again, and again. The blood cascaded out of the hole in his head, spitting like a broken sprinkler, and landed onto her face, covering her. But she couldn't stop. She wanted him dead. She bellowed out, sobbing as his body fell limp on top of her, the blood running onto her clothes.

The oxygen found its way back into her lungs and she gulped as much of it as she could. Dregs of Thomas' blood trickled into her mouth, making her heave. She gathered up all her remaining energy, and pushed his heavy body away, wincing as it tumbled over the side of her. Shaking and sitting on her heels, the thick rubber of the boots dug into her buttocks, it hit her hard. She looked at her trembling hands, the blood that was smeared all over them, now turning a chalky red as it dried in the heat. She'd killed him. He was dead. _She'd_ killed him. She stared distantly at her hands, wishing the blood would vanish.

Burter's body had convulsed for long enough, leaving Vegeta with no other option than to turn away, and block the insufferable sight out of his mind. This time he'd overdone it, now unable to open his left eye. Despite winning his last battle, popping Pui Pui's neck instantly, somehow he had allowed Burter's poorly executed attacks get the better of him. He landed back onto the uneven ground with a crunch, and spat a glob of blood—his own, this time—which had been swimming in his mouth for the best part of a minute. As he landed, there was an intrusive shock of pain in his ribs. They were broken, probably beyond repair in such a small time frame, but he had fought with worse injuries that this. During a training session on-board Frieza's ship, Lord Frieza himself decided to challenge him, ruthlessly carving into him like a wild boar, throwing attacks that Vegeta just couldn't counter. It was fair to say that he'd been left an inch a way from death, immediately taken to one of the rejuvenation tanks. The reason Frieza did it? At the time he didn't know, but now he did.

His face contorted slightly when he tried to walk. It was pretty bad this time that was for sure. The gorge dropped to a dead silence, indicating Burter's death. The knowledge of the Ginyu warrior, lying stone cold a few meters away from him, forced an uncertain feeling to churn in his abdomen, alongside the excruciating throb of his broken ribs. Just how did Burter manage to get the better of him? It was his speed that Vegeta couldn't match. That was it. Vegeta might have been fast, but Burter was in a totally different league. But, despite being battered to a pulp, Vegeta was still alive. And the reason for that was the Earthling woman he'd been forced to form a strategic partnership with. He hated it. He could see her, squatting down, not moving a muscle, covered in blood. His eyes narrowed and they shifted to the lifeless body beside her. Another human, dead, and by the look of it, had suffered multiple head trauma. Whatever she'd managed to do, she'd made a mess of it. There was blood all over the place; spattered on the rocks, and all over her clothes and face.

She was still motionless. He didn't have time for it. The two dragon balls Burter had collected were somewhere close by, and he had to find them, but without her being mobile, there was nothing he could do. Half the time he wondered what would happen if he knocked her out and just carried her everywhere, but like he said before, he wasn't a babysitter. The option still appealed to him, though, if only faintly. He looked up, and then all around the area, until he saw the orange glow of the dragon balls, nestled amongst a pile of rocks. He wanted to laugh at Burter's audacity, but the action would have caused him too much pain and little satisfaction, so he hobbled over to them, clutching his abdomen. When he ambled back, the five star and two star balls under his arm, he was undecided about what to do with the weakling woman. She _still_ hadn't moved, and they'd been out of immediate danger for at least five minutes. He spotted the backpack, went to it and threw the balls in, because it was clear that she wasn't going to move any time soon. Tough, he wasn't going to sit around and wait for her to realise that she'd only killed another human. What was killing an Earthling, anyway?

A soft wind was circulating the area of the gorge, causing tiny waves to slap the sides of the rocky walls. Vegeta picked the muddy backpack up and threw it so that it landed right beside the woman. She didn't even flinch, just kept her eyes glued to her bloody hands. He really saw her then, her face. It had transformed almost. Usually, despite the apparent malnutrition, this woman was remarkably exuberant, but her face was willowy and gaunt, only so much so now that it was smeared with a dead man's blood. Vegeta blinked with his one good eye, suddenly realising that she had never killed before. Her first kill. Her first _murder_. Again, he looked at the dead body, the concaved skull. As brutal a death as they came. And she'd done that a mere few minutes ago while he was being shamefully obliterated by Burter. A dull memory started to return to him—when he first killed. He was a child, five, maybe six. He could barely recollect it, but it was a female from the first planet he purged with Raditz and Napa. The thing that stayed with him the most, though, was the scream. He could hear it now, like it had happened a moment ago. After that, every other kill morphed into the same one, and he tallied them off until he got bored. Every scream became that female's scream, and every plea for help.

Looking at the Earthling female now, he felt something unfamiliar in the pit of his stomach. He felt … empathy, if only a slither. He recognised what she'd done. And he recognised that if she hadn't have done it, he would most likely have been dead now. He frowned, deep confusion boiling in his brain. In the outer layers of his conscious, he wanted to scream at her to get up, perhaps rough her up a bit until she got the message, but deep down, he wanted her to _understand_. He sighed, and shifted his weight onto the other foot. He could pick her up by the neck, maybe squeeze it just enough to wake her up from whatever state of consciousness she'd slipped into, but something was dominating that idea.

She was shaking. That was some form of movement, at least.

"Human, get up," he said, finding it hard to keep looking at her. It was setting anger in him again, and he couldn't understand why. Was it the fact that she wouldn't move? Or more so that he wanted her to move? He didn't have the energy to waste on her. She was lucky in that sense. Distractedly, he glanced down at his own attire. They were filthy, as assumed, with Burter's blood, and probably old flecks of Pui Pui's blood, on his garments. He'd never had to wallow for so long with his victims' blood on his clothing. He had to make amendments. There was plenty of water around to do the trick, but this _woman_ was scratching at the inside of his brain, sitting there doing _nothing_. He hated any display of frailty, no matter who it was from. She hadn't even looked at him.

"You need to move," he said, his tone softer than he had wanted, instantly regretting the melodic sound of his voice. He trudged off towards the other side of the gorge. She would move eventually, he decided. The fear would kick in soon enough at the realisation that he was bordering the end of their one hundred meters wingspan. But as he reached about ninety of those one hundred, and she had yet to move, he was rendered stationary. He sighed, his shoulders slumping, and spun on his heels. "Woman, if you don't move, we will both die here, alongside these cretins." His eyes glimmered irritably as he waited for her to do something. Slowly, mechanically, she lifted her head up from her hands, and her eyes met his, catching his breath. The act was so sudden that he almost choked. Her eyes were distant, grey, faded, somewhere beyond herself. It was a challenge to maintain his composure. Nevertheless, she rose from the ground silently, took the backpack, and made her way towards him. Rather than look at her brittle frame any longer, he turned and walked ahead, through a small passage, following a narrow stream of water, which eventually lead to jungle surroundings again. All the while he made sure he could hear her soft footsteps behind him.

They continued to follow the stream, until it grew and widened into a large river, which he assumed lead out into the ocean, or something. It would do, he thought, as he approached a sloppy embankment, checking the clear water for any life forms. He hadn't forgotten the beasts he encountered back in the snow storm. Who knew what an uninhibited planet now harboured. Without looking at her, knowing that she'd reached a few meters short of his side, he said, "You need to wash the blood from your skin," and paused, half interested to see if she would throw some kind of stupid comment back at him. "We'll stay here for a short while." The truth was, he himself needed rest, rather than the fucking woman. He needed to regain his strength, and now they had four dragon balls. Two days, and that's what they'd achieved already. He was satisfied for now. A night of rest wouldn't hinder their chances of getting it all finished in the next two days. He would succumb to sleep, and wake up ten times stronger than he was before. In fact, almost dying to Burter was a good thing, because a Saiyan always came back stronger—every time.

He walked away from the woman, to let her wallow in her own self-pity. The thought of witnessing that made him feel sick. Instead he stood against a nearby tree, facing away from the river, and waited for the mind numbing sobs to begin. A long moment idled past, before Vegeta hesitantly closed his good eye to allow himself the ability to think clearly. There was a quiet sloshing of water behind him. The woman must've been cleaning herself. Well, good, he thought, inching down the tree trunk, feeling the rough scales of bark mould into his back.

As always, his mind drifted, desperately searching for something useful to think about, but there wasn't anything. Plus, he didn't want to think too hard about anything because he needed to keep his strength. His eye had been done-in by Burter, and he could barely open it. Tomorrow it would be bruised, letting every other warrior know that he had fought a decent fight, and still came out alive. They will tremble before him, like they should. This made him smile, but the smile made his face ache, so he resumed impassive, impassive to everything, except how quiet the woman was being. Considering what she had carried out, he'd expected her to be crying her abysmal heart out by now. It seemed that wasn't the case. For a moment he thought she'd died, but then that would be a stupid idea. He was linked to this Earthling like a trinket around Frieza's fucking neck. If she died, the chain would be broken, and he would die too. It would be a shameful and dishonourable way to die. In a sense, his life rested on her shoulders.

He wanted to scream until all the air dissipated from his lungs.

_What the fuck is she doing?_

What did it matter? She was practically a zombie. That was a good thing. Perhaps she would remain this quiet for the rest of their time together. He dismissed his last pang of conscience, and surreptitiously leaned forward, cocking his head to the side just to make sure she wasn't trying to kill herself, because he wouldn't allow that. She was standing waist deep in the river, the ripples drifting over her. She was just _standing _there. He could only see the back of her, and he noticed she had yet to wash the blood from her hair. Then suddenly, in one quick action, she grabbed the hem of her t-shirt and pulled it up over her head, throwing it on the river bank, leaving her bare before him. Her pale skin almost glowed, the little bit of sun light that was breaking through the branches, leaving flecks of yellow on her back. He followed the curves of her body, from her shoulders, to the smooth hourglass shape of her waist, her spine visible and protruding. Her hair fell just below her shoulders, matted, but glorious in colour.

He wanted to exorcise the image, he did, but for the life of him he couldn't tear his eyes away from her. He couldn't even blink for fear of it not being real. She waded through the water, spreading her arms out, as if she was practising the breast stroke. And she cupped handfuls, throwing it into her face. When her hands came to rest on her face, he got a glint of her breasts, but she dropped her arms all too quickly to her side again. His mouth was dry, and he snapped it shut to swallow, unaware it was open to begin with. The red water was swept away by the current, leaving her clean, and …

Vegeta squeezed his eyes shut and spun back round, giving himself another chance to think clearly. What the _fuck_ had just happened to him? His mind was foggy; anything rational was covered in layers of grey mist. The image of her naked, ethereal figure was engraved in his mind's eye; her perfect milky flesh. He ran his hands down the trunk of the tree, picking off scabs of bark and crushing them into tiny crusts. His instant need was to subjugate her. That was what he set out to do. He'd been too lenient. But, no, he couldn't look at her for any longer than he did. He'd seen plenty of naked female creatures from all over the galaxy, and some had given him pleasures hard to imagine. It wasn't a big deal. He balled his fists tight, banishing the perverse thoughts.

He regained his composure, cracked his sore neck, and raised his head to look beyond the broken canopy.

He couldn't look at her for any longer than he did, because … Frieza was watching his every move.

* * *

A/N - I know Burter would have been weaker than Pui Pui, but I hated Pui Pui, and wanted him to die first. :)


	6. Chapter 6 - Day Two

A/N - this chapter may suffer from some grammatical and/or spelling errors. I've checked it, but my eyes seem to trail over them.

Chapter Six – Day Two

Toughened Up

Slumber didn't treat Vegeta kindly, as when he awoke, he was feeling rougher than before he reluctantly let his eyelids fall shut. It was dark. Dawn or dusk? He didn't know. The planet was nothing like he assumed. Still, only one of eye was fully functional; the other, he was unable to move a milometer, glued shut with mucus. The itchy crust was more than annoying, flaking onto his cheek. It wasn't meant to be this way—a Saiyan was meant to come back twice as strong. He felt a twitch on his foot, narrowed his eyes threateningly at the disgusting creature that was chewing on his boot. It was some sort of grotesque beetle, with onyx eyes, its body about the span of a human hand. He booted it, sending it crashing somewhere beyond his line of vision. Good riddance. He'd been asleep for a few hours and already something was trying to make a meal of him. But, as he stretched his shoulders and a searing bolt of pain staggered into his rib cage, he knew he'd already been made a meal of … by Burter. It must have slipped his mind. There was nothing worse than momentarily forgetting a defeat. The Earthling woman may have inadvertently killed off Burter, but the fact still remained, deep set in Vegeta's mind—Burter could've have killed him if he'd had a moment longer. And it was a thought Vegeta wished he could wipe out, discard, along with Pui Pui and that creature he found eating his boot. Nothing was ever that easy, nor was it ever going to be in the future, but awaking to find that his strength had not only failed to increase, but had in fact decreased, was unpleasant.

_The anklet._

He slowly roused himself, using the trunk of the tree for balance, and stood, allowing the pain to truly surface, so he could get an idea what he was dealing with. His entire body roared out in protest from the sudden movement, but he kept that to himself, remembering that any weakness was being accounted for by Frieza. As he dragged his feet through the thick grass, moving through the darkness, he remembered the Earthling—the _female_. The perfected mental images of her crashed into his mind—the image of purity—and it did something to him. He hissed between his teeth, the majority of it being from the pain.

The slow current of the river, flushing further downstream, sounded pleasant to him as he made his way down to wash the blood from his skin. His clothes could wait. He was sure to reach another opportunity where water was available. Right now was not the time. Plus, his Saiyan armour was quite restricting and difficult to get off, requiring effort and energy he couldn't spend. Just as he stumbled down to the embankment, he peered across the river to see the woman, sitting down in the wet soil, fiddling with the anklet. She was fully clothed this time, though.

Vegeta frowned.

From here he could see that her clothing was still faintly stained with blood, blood that had turned into weak pink patches, from her collar to her abdomen. Like he noticed before, she had made a messy job out of killing that other human. He could have handled it more efficiently, that was, if he wasn't already being eaten alive by Burter. Surprisingly, she didn't grace him with her short-spanned attention, rather kept it solely focused on the ankle device, twisting it, causing it to bleed. She still seemed … distant to what she was previously. He didn't care, anyway. He needed to get relatively clean and stable if they were to continue soon.

He kicked his boots off and discarded them behind him, revealing an anklet identical to hers. Each team had identical anklets, he'd noticed, only vaguely, but still apparent. He waded into the shallow water, allowing the current to wander around him, and then scooped handfuls and threw them in his face. He did this again and again, until his wounded eye began to peel open without him having to touch it. Eventually it worked, but his eye refused to open fully. No matter, he could see now. He scraped his wet hands through his hair, catching anything that didn't belong, like skin or teeth. He once had to unstick an eyeball from his thick main, and he'd be dammed if he had to do that ever again. Once he was done, he stepped out onto the other side of the river, where the woman had ensconced herself, slightly discombobulated by the array of items around her.

_What in the world … ?_

He wasn't even going to ask, because frankly, it didn't matter to him. What did matter was the severity of his stomach growling. He hadn't eaten in over a day. No wonder he wasn't at his best. That would've been why Burter outmatched him. Of course.

What botched Vegeta's composure more was the sight of the dragon balls lined up behind her. They had four. Seeing them all lined up made them seem like trophies, which was what they were, he supposed. Trophies, rather keys, to unlock his freedom … or immortality.

The woman sat back, grabbed a small capsule, opened it and started to eat whatever the hell it was. It looked like some sort of shrivelled Namekian finger. Disgusting. He grimaced, and she finally granted him her attention, eyeing him curiously without saying a word. He wanted to berate her, but he couldn't will himself to waste his time. What was the point anymore? Besides, she'd clearly had more than enough of what her puny human body could endure. Vegeta tilted his head back, watching the breeze ruffle the leaves, which allowed the moonlight to peek through the gaps occasionally. How long had he really been asleep for? He couldn't tell. Not on this planet, anyway. He jumped when something landed on his foot. He glanced down painfully slow, to see an animal carcass sprawled across his boot, its lifeless face dark, its mouth open like it was surprised by its imminent death. It was one of those beasts he saw swinging through the trees earlier. But how did … ?

The woman was staring at him, cold blue reading into onyx. It was then when he scanned the items on the floor, until he saw a sharp implement wrapped in blood. Without thinking further, his mind being dominated by the hunger in his stomach, he squatted to pick the creature up, scrutinising it for its edibility. So far the creatures had proved no problem for his stomach, and were no less intrusive than the food he'd been supplied with on Frieza's ship. Also, he didn't have enough energy to go and hunt anything down for himself, not that it would have been too difficult. This creature would suffice for now.

"The next dragon ball is close," she said, pinching the skin around the device, blood oozing from the bolts that had her ankle captured.

Vegeta scowled. What was she really trying to achieve, other than to bleed to death? He registered what she said, and before biting into the dead creature, holding it up towards his face, he said, "Where?"

The woman looked out onto the river, the flow of water bouncing off the protruding, slime-slicked rocks. "Twenty five miles."

He almost choked. That was more than close. And she didn't think to tell him immediately, instead of trying to bargain him off with a scrawny meal?

"It's unguarded," she mumbled, returning to her bloody ankle.

It was beginning to pester him. "What do you mean, human?"

"It's _unguarded_. No one has found it yet."

Vegeta turned and distanced himself from her sorry sight. So, the dragon ball was close and unguarded. How bizarre. It shouldn't be, but there would be some explanation along the way. Who was to say that the team to find it simply didn't make it even that far? He smirked. _Fucking useless, all of them._

He eased himself to the ground, and gnawed into the animal carcass, enjoying the feel of its fragile bones crunching between his teeth. Lukewarm blood dribbled down his chin, but he didn't care much for it. The taste wasn't too pleasant either, but it filled a gap. Food was not a luxury Vegeta was accustomed to. Food was merely consumed to gain strength, and to keep living. As long as it was edible, he cared very little. Being a Saiyan made this type of conditioning a struggle. Saiyans were known for their bottomless-pit-like stomachs; just something else Frieza made sure to change. He chewed thoughtfully. If he remembered correctly, the woman's ship was a ten mile walk away, somewhere south of here. From consuming the creature, he had at least enough energy to make it back to her ship, and fly the twenty five miles to the next dragon ball. They needed to pick up the pace, then.

Hopefully, wherever the dragon ball was, there would be something to help him regain his strength.

* * *

Waiting for her to alight her aircraft was laborious. It took them little under five minutes to reach the destination, but it drained what little energy Vegeta had left. It was humiliating to be left in this condition, left to wander the wastelands of a lost planet, with nothing but a human by your side. Vegeta was an illustrious fighter, feared by thousands, maybe millions, and now he was left standing under a harsh downpour of rain, waiting for this idiotic woman to get her act together. For some reason she thought it was a clever idea to use the blinding lights on her aircraft, allowing her to see in the dark. She may as well have stuck a sign on her vehicle saying, 'I'm a dumb fuck, come and kill me now, please.'

Scientist?

He scoffed aloud, folding his arms.

It appeared they'd landed amongst what looked like an abandoned city. The architecture indicated that there would have been a throng of inhabitants bustling in and out of these buildings once upon a time. A long time ago, though. The narrow, oval buildings were mostly demolished, some of them tilted so far, they looked like a toppled row of dominos. It was hard to see in the darkness, his concentrated glare shifting through the copious rainfall, but it was easy to tell that this had-been city didn't have a scrap of useful life in it at all. Not a shred. The likelihood of him finding anything to help him regain strength was nil, meaning they'd have to grab the dragon ball and head off swiftly, before any other warrior got wind of it.

Knowing that she wasn't far behind, Vegeta stepped out onto the saturated makings of a pathway, wincing from the sharp pain injecting into his ribs. There was new life growing all around, blue vines crawling out of gaping holes in the buildings, purple blades of grass poking out of rock clusters. He found the whole thing a bit odd. Seeing as the planet was purged of all life, stripped bare of anything, it persisted to grow on, without the help of natives. If he cared, he would have been a little impressed. Forgetting about it all, he continued to make his way through the city, foolishly stumbling on the odd occasion, his vision becoming a little too blurry. The dragon ball couldn't have been too far now.

"Check the radar," he said, blindly pointing to the device. He had yet to give her a single glance since they landed. He needed to focus on what was important. His physical weakness was delving deeper, scratching into his mind, allowing pointless thoughts to invade. Once he was stronger, she would be dealt with accordingly. But until then, he had to persevere.

She took a while to answer, and the voice was so collected that it set him at unease.

"Just around this corner," she said, and he assumed she was gesturing to the only right turn available, a wide bend where a building had fallen, restricting any other option.

He snarled, and ventured on, irritatingly slow, slower than he'd ever walked before. If anyone wanted to use the same ambushing skills as Burter, Vegeta would surely be dead. He was a sitting duck. His hair wilted, and sections of it drooped onto his forehead, accumulating drops of water and releasing them into his eyes. It was a fucking pain, to say the least. They both turned down the wide passage way, opening up the surroundings substantially. The buildings leaned backwards, as if welcoming them into the fresh, distinctive sight. Vegeta pensively narrowed his eyes, the relentless rain making it awkward to make out hardened shapes. Perhaps it was a mirage?

Two hundred yards away, stood a huge cathedral, towering over all the fallen buildings, its chalky walls embellished with moss and vines, all green. Why was it still standing? Every other building was a shambles, yet this particular one looked like it barely owned a puncture, or scratch, at least. The closer he got to it, the more intrigued he became. The building was so outstanding and overwhelmingly glorious that it was magnetising, drawing him in quicker than his tired legs could carry. His regards for the woman and her sanity, as minimal as they were to begin with, were completely erased by his need to get inside the cathedral, so he walked, uncaring of whether she followed or not. It was shelter, perhaps a place to gain some strength, but also, it was where the dragon ball was kept. It had to be. A building stood as tall as this?

He lifted himself up the twenty-or-more stone steps, reaching the peak, where the powerful wooden doors stood, ajar, beckoning his entrance. Heavily, he pushed the door open, its frame scraping on the chipped tiled flooring, and opened his view up to a huge space. The unwelcome presence of the woman at his side replaced his curiosity with heavy disappointment. A place like this shouldn't be soiled with a creature such as her. He could hear her breathing, steadily, perhaps transfixed with the same state of adoration as he, though it mattered very little.

Unfortunately there was seldom to see in the cathedral, the building ran completely thick with a haze of grey steam, or fog, or something of the sort. Once inside, the battering rain became softer and more of a light patter on the thirty foot stained-glass windows; streaks of rain cascaded down, creating a waterfall of colour against the glass. He looked around closely. There were tiny particles floating in the air, almost lively with the static of a rising storm. Past them, beyond the particles' ghostly motion, stood an altar, and sitting right in the centre was the dragon ball. Its distinctive orange glow was hard to mistake, even for Vegeta's wounded vision. He didn't need to consult the woman, or the radar, in order to succeed, so he set aside his weakness and strode ahead, feeling his way through the wall of thick mist.

Hardly making any progress, Vegeta resorted to using his arms to swat away the particles, in order for him to see what direction he was heading in. It was straight ahead. How hard was that, really? But for some fucking reason, he couldn't get any further than a couple of steps, sensing a grip on his muscles, like someone was physically latching on to him, pulling him back to where he started. For a moment he thought it could have been the woman, but her presence wasn't that close. Whatever it was, it was exorcising all his energy, and he could see the steam snaking off his wet clothing as his body heated from over exertion.

A galvanic tingle became present in his lungs, forcing little gasps for air out his throat, encouraging him to vacuum the available air supply, which was laden with those wretched particles. He felt the muscles in his chest spasm, before he choked and spluttered, only to inhale more and more of the particles. He fell to his knees, bracing his hands out onto the cold floor, trying to regain a normal breathing pattern, but something was stopping him. It was poison—the particles. It had to be. To his complete disgust, he hadn't even made it three meters into the poisonous fog, though it made it easier for him to retreat into clean, breathable air. As he did so, he gripped his chest, trying to alleviate the burning, hoping that he hadn't inhaled too much of it.

He heaved himself back on to his feet, once the fire in his lungs had subsided, and glared at the dragon ball on the altar, as it sat there mockingly. The fog was everywhere, except the immediate entrance to the building. It rested high on the ceilings, floating like a swarm of insects. There had to be a way around it, a way to evade the fumes, but how? He scanned the area, the thick marble pillars, and the huge glass windows heavy with a kaleidoscope of colours, all blurry with the hazy vibration of poisonous particles.

He couldn't do it. It was impossible.

Like a soulless being, the woman stepped around him and walked fearlessly into the particles, breathing the air freely. It was the first time he'd seen her properly since they landed. Her clothes were saturated, clinging to her tall, yet weakened frame, her hair wet, shiny, a darker shade of blue than usual. The way she wandered into the particles, so gracefully, despite her condition, captured him for a moment, making him forget that she was doing something which he couldn't.

She stopped and turned to face him, her features impassive. His brow furrowed, almost joining together, as he gathered what he was seeing. It appeared that the particles did nothing to deter her from breathing. She was immune to the poison. But, as he looked behind her towards the altar, he saw that the dragon ball rested further than their one hundred meter range, meaning she couldn't simply glide down there and get it.

It struck him suddenly (something that didn't happen very often) that she breezed past him into the particles, post witnessing the effects it had on him. Did she think that it would have done the same to her? Did she purposely walk through thinking it would be an easy escape out of life? He felt a stab of something in his gut. It made him want to kill her himself. He would rather do that than watch her take her own life, thus snatching his away too. Selfish bitch.

Anyway, she didn't die, and the dragon ball was still there waiting for them to take it. The woman's eyes trailed the length and width of the building, provoking him to do the same. Of course! The width. The building may have been over one hundred meters to get to the altar, but the width was considerably less than that, meaning he could scale the outside; keeping away from the particles, meanwhile the Earthling could get the dragon ball. It was too easy. He could simply follow her tiny energy signal, keeping track of her. They would have the dragon ball in their possession in no time at all. His sight fell upon her wide eyes, and it was as if she was thinking the same thing.

"I will walk on the outside of the building, and you'll remain inside to get the dragon ball," he said, watching as she nodded in agreement.

Usually she would have demurred, but today she was working efficiently, like a well-programmed machine. That's what she needed to be. Perhaps that is what she has become.

Good, he thought as he stepped out into the thudding rain.

He briefly looked out at the ruined city, the emptiness of it all. It reminded him of his home, for some bizarre reason that he couldn't place. It didn't matter. He frowned, hobbled down the steps, baring his teeth again in a poor attempt to hide the biting pain, and went to the left side of the cathedral. He closed his eyes, focused deeply on her life force, which was quite easy to find as there was no one else for miles. He found her, but she was still stationary.

"Woman, for the sake of your own life, you better get a move on," he shouted, and winced regretfully as his voice echoed unnaturally.

The rain battered his skin. He didn't know whether it was a pleasant sensation or not. It wasn't cold, but it wasn't warm, either. Finally, she moved quickly, and he followed, running his hand low along the slimy walls, partly for balance. His lungs still tingled from the particles, and he suspected that whatever he had inhaled was merely the beginning of something. He had a gut feeling that the particles would form into spores in his body and manifest somehow. In simple terms, he guessed that he was going to die soon. Despite their anatomy being similar, it was clear that the humans were in fact very different, an example being that they could withstand different toxins in the air, which Saiyans evidently couldn't. The human race wasn't as weak as he'd first presumed.

But they had been easy to eradicate.

He was nearing the end of the wall, when he felt the woman stop. A hypersonic flair in her life force made the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention. Something was in there with her, trying to kill her. He couldn't sense another life force, but what else could it have been? Vegeta instantly peeled himself away from the wall, staggered back, held out his right arm, and focused his energy into it. If anyone was going to kill her, it would be him.

The eyes staring back at her were glassy, as though they'd been subjected to hours of crying, and were bright lavender in colour. She couldn't see anything else, other than this creature's eyes, capturing her where she stood. There was no need to scream, or to show any signs of fear, because this creature knew what she felt, somehow, and she knew it knew. She felt ready for something, like this creature knew her, and was planning to tell her valuable information, but whatever it was, she had to wait to find out. In the presence of this creature, she felt no fear.

With a raucous crash, the wall behind Bulma exploded and crumbled into a pile of chalk. Forcefully, she tore her affixed gaze from the creature and turned, wild eyed, to see the destruction created. Standing in the archway of a newly destroyed wall was Vegeta, an arm extended while his other arm gripped his abdomen. He was in a considerable amount of pain. That was easy to see. He'd managed to gather enough energy to create a mess, and something about it all annoyed Bulma. Something about him pulling her away, and tearing this unknown connection between her and the creature apart, stirred a bout of anxiety she thought she'd lost.

Thankfully, Vegeta couldn't tread any further into the cathedral, for the particles still consumed any breathable air, so he stood, poised for attack. Bulma narrowed her eyes threateningly at him, silently telling him to leave, but his were trained elsewhere—on the creature behind her. And quicker than Bulma could have anticipated, a blue flash was emitted, zapping past her head. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, awaiting the empty thud of another dead body, but as the seconds passed by, and the soft downpour of the rain outside tickled her eardrums, she was encouraged to see what had changed. Why hadn't it died? Was Vegeta's attack not strong enough this time? Then, the warm, cooking heat of Vegeta's energy buzzed behind her head, provoking her to turn.

She couldn't believe what she saw. Suspended in the air, a couple inches shy of the creature's face, was Vegeta's energy blast, just hanging silently. The once lavender eyes of the creature had transformed, matching the electric blue of the blast, while the it frowned viciously, the deep concentration evident on its ghostly white face. The creature blinked, and the energy blast flew back towards Vegeta, crashing into him, knocking him off his feet.

The loud slap of Vegeta's face hitting the wet floor jolted Bulma, and she blinked, focusing her vision on the fallen Saiyan. "Vegeta," she shouted, bracing herself to sprint towards him. But as she took a step forward, a cold claw wrapped around her wrist, holding it in a vice-like grip. Her heart pounded, as if awakening, beating to its familiar rhythm, and the darkened colours in the cathedral came to live. There must have been moonlight burrowing under the thick cloud clover, because the entire cathedral lit up, sending a rainbow of colours, slicing through the stained glass. Her willingness to run for Vegeta at the first sign of trouble startled her a bit, allowing her to loosen her guard for a moment, enough to give the creature the opportunity to turn her to face it again.

A huff of air leaked out of her slightly open mouth, almost a sigh of defeat, as she gazed upon the creature again. She could truly see it now—him. He was at least seven foot tall, with large, pointy, white ears, which were covered from lobe to point with piercings. His skin was like concrete. It was grey, but in the darkness it glimmered white, coupled with the moonlight. He had bumps protruding from his forehead, running right to the back of his head, she assumed. He resembled some kind of prehistoric animal, although his lips had the likeness of a human, as did his nose. But the claw that eventually let go of her arm was very bizarre, and dangerous. Yet, he hadn't killed her, and somehow she knew he wasn't going to.

His lavender eyes read into her vacant expression, before he took a graceful step back, allowing her some space. His footsteps echoed, the sound sending a shiver down her spine.

"You made it through the fog," he stated, his face fixed into a frown, one that depicted confusion over anything else.

Bulma wanted to look back at Vegeta, but couldn't. She made it through the fog? The particles? She just assumed they were some sort of gas. It was only natural for there to be dangerous gases lurking on an uninhibited planet. She didn't even think about it, when she walked through them. She just knew that she needed to get her hands on the dragon ball, more than anything, and she did. It was safely tucked away in the back pack along with the others.

She met the creature's eyes again.

"You're pure," he said knowingly, fixing her with a hard stare.

The sound of Vegeta stirring back to life provoked an unintelligible sound from Bulma, knowing his death meant hers, too. Too many thoughts all came crashing into her head at once. She made it through the fog? Yeah, so what? Who was this creature, and why wasn't she afraid of him? Why hadn't he killed her? What had he just done to Vegeta?

She exhaled slowly, dipping her chin and staring at the floor. "Who are you?" she said, holding the straps of the back pack, but when she lifted her head, she was only greeted with the emptiness of a once holy building, with a sheen of florescent colour gracing her skin. Her hands trembled, her skin tingled, as she stood thinking whether she'd imagined it all. Thinking she'd really lost her mind, her precious mind, which had earned her so much to be proud of. Gone, under the duress of a couple inhumane acts. The creature's words batted back and forth in her head. She was _pure_? It was unquestionable. Those were the words that left his lips. How could she possibly be pure after what she'd done?

She looked around the cathedral again, and the particles, or the fog, had vanished, dematerialised. It had been a trap. The realisation thudded against her like an on-coming train. That creature had set the whole thing up. Bulma started when she felt a presence at her side, the presence of a bruised and battered Saiyan. A lump formed in her throat at the sight of him. She was overwhelmed with the need to help him, but knew she couldn't. He was still a malicious warrior, bent on killing anything and everything that stood in his way. He didn't think twice about sending a blast at the creature before, enemy or not.

"Do you know who that was?" she said.

Vegeta's breathing was heavy, raspy. His eye was practically black, and he was struggling to see out of it. "Of course I don't know. It didn't even have a life-force," he hissed, clenching his ribs.

Bulma tried hard not to look at him. "He wasn't another warrior," she mused, more to herself than Vegeta.

But he answered anyway, equally as dumbfounded. "Not to my knowledge."

"He was using telekinesis …"

"I'm not fucking stupid, woman. I know what the damn freak used," he spluttered, a rivulet a blood running from the corner of his mouth.

She squinted at the large windows, as if the answers to all her questions were printed in the pictures on the glass. They weren't, though. The glass only depicted fields of luscious trees and sweeping grass, not the reason why a creature had materialised out of thin air, and presented her with more stress than she already needed. Absentmindedly she wrapped her hand around her wrist, feeling the bereaved sensation the creature left. Why didn't the radar track his life-force? Was he a ghost? But, Vegeta …

The explanation she needed was too far in the distance now. It was probably somewhere beyond the sunny fields on the stained glass. But the game still continued, and they now had five balls, meaning there were only two teams left. So, another team must have perished in order for this ball to be free? Bulma shuddered as the cold crept in, taking a hold of the damp clothes on her back. Vegeta must have been worse than she thought, because he'd seemingly had no objection to them standing in the cathedral for longer than necessary.

When she shifted to see him, she became very aware that he'd been staring at her the entire time, his deep eyes penetrating her skin. Her mouth fell open to speak, but no words came out. He looked … horrific. He needed help, otherwise they were going to die, and she couldn't fend off any large enemies.

Right on cue, loud moan that escalated into a howl, rumbled far in the distance. Every hair on the back of Bulma's neck shot up, electrified, as a set of replying howls emanated closer by. Vegeta's face contorted into a mask of excruciating pain as he twisted his body towards the broken archway he'd previously created.

"What was that?" Bulma said, her words tripping over one another. She gripped onto the back pack straps harder than ever, curling her fingers tight, restricting the blood flow. Whatever it was, there was a few of them, and Vegeta being in his current state … they didn't stand a chance. Bulma remembered the knife in her pocket. She could fend them off for as long as her body would allow.

Vegeta wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, and seethed with readiness. "I don't know what it is, but we need to move, _now_."

* * *

A/N - I'm getting my tonsils out on Wednesday morning, so I don't know when the next update will be. But, saying that, I have two whole weeks off work because of it, so maybe I'll write more than ever. It all depends how much of a wuss I am come Wednesday night. I'll see how it goes, eh. Hope you enjoyed this chapter, anyway!


	7. Chapter 7 - Day Three

A/N - Big thanks to **Adli** for beta reading this chapter :D  
  
Chapter Seven - Day Three

The Light in the Dark

The wind and rain lashed at their backs as they swung into a dank stairwell. Bulma blindly felt her way down the corroding concrete steps, her heart hammering, while Vegeta twisted the door handle into an impossible shape. His groaning, from even the littlest of efforts, was becoming hard to tolerate. Bulma wanted nothing more than to help him, but she couldn't. Not just because she didn't have the right supplies, but out of principle. Why should she alleviate the pain of a mass murdering warrior? Under any other circumstances she would have cheered and rallied towards a harsh sentence for someone like Vegeta, yet here she was stuck with him, wanting to _help_ him. Her slow, cautious steps echoed lightly throughout the room they'd chosen, and she was unable to see in the pitch-blackness. It wasn't one hundred per cent secure, but Vegeta was in no state to go on any further. They had no choice but to recuperate in the first safe-looking hovel.

Bulma took a steady breath, quiet enough to listen out for anything other than the rainfall up above. For all she knew, one of those creatures could be lurking in this very room, waiting for her to dimly step into its domain. Her body stiffened when she felt Vegeta pass her, his weakened frame using copious amounts of energy with every move. Barely able to see his outline, she peered as he trudged through the room, becoming swallowed by the darkness. Then he was gone. The only indication that he was still near was his laborious breathing.

She felt her way to the nearest wall, frightened by the immediacy of its cold touch, and slumped to the floor, hugging her backpack tight. A whirlwind of thoughts spun around her head as she stared at the blackness before her—how did she end up getting into this mess? She almost wanted to laugh, it was so stupid. Every now and again, her sanity would burrow out of the tiny hole it had hidden in, and present her with that question. She closed her eyes. The room smelled awful, like something had perished in it. It probably had. She didn't know what she was sitting in. It could've been a torture chamber or something. There was no need to think like that.

Vegeta's breathing was irregular and shallow. At times she thought he'd given up, but then he would stir again.

The faint sound of the creatures howling in the distance was enough to keep Bulma pinned against the wall. They hadn't seen the creatures, but before they found this room, they sounded close. Too close.

She started to shiver, so she held the backpack tighter in a poor attempt to stop. It was a wonder she hadn't contracted pneumonia yet. Her boots were saturated and freezing—if she left them on much longer, she was most likely to get foot-rot, or trench-foot. Nothing nice, anyway. As gently as possible, she unlaced them and slipped them off her feet, her eyes instantly being drawn to the green glow of the anklet. _Green_. The skin surrounding the anklet was a lime green. It looked beautiful, like she was an other-worldly creature, not herself anymore. She would love to be someone else right now. She reluctantly took her eyes away from her ankle, only to see that the room had become darker—a darker shade of black. She fumbled for her boots, and pushed them against the wall at her side, while the gritty floor scratched the soles of her feet. She cast a glance off in the direction Vegeta went in, but couldn't see a thing. He was there, though. Something about knowing that, stopped her from shaking, and her body sunk into a content, relaxed state, setting her mind at ease for a moment.

_But if it wasn't for the anklet, he would have killed you by now._

Her brows knitted together and she pursed her lips. The words 'kill' and 'murder' didn't have the same effect on Bulma anymore. They were mere words to her now. Not forbidden acts in a world of morals, and what was right and wrong. In _this_ world, those words were as common as a greeting. In _this_ world, she wasn't Bulma Briefs, head of Capsule Corp, anymore. But it didn't dissuade her conscience from wanting to know certain things about her past, the life before this, and why she could remember very little of it. Like why, despite knowing about the people she loved, was she not overly concerned for those close to her? Sure, her parents, she missed them dearly; they were an exception. But her boyfriend, and other friends … she knew she missed them, but how much she couldn't determine. It was a frustrating thought.

Bulma exhaled from her nose, hoping it wouldn't make too much noise, but the whistling of a brewing fever was too noticeable. She sniffed hard. Vegeta shifted, and even though she couldn't see him, she had a feeling that he was watching her. Her skin prickled.

"Why?" she whispered, surprised at the interrogative that tumbled from her chapped lips. Of course there was no response. She didn't even know what she was asking. It just came out. She straightened up, rubbing her back against the wall. She may as well have been talking to herself. Vegeta was probably unconscious. "Why is Frieza doing this?" she said, and picked a loose thread on her jeans.

"To wish for—" Vegeta said, spluttering. "To wish for immortality."

Bulma blinked in astonishment, partly because he had answered, but more so because he'd answered her properly, without cutting her off, or hurling glass shards of abuse at her. So that's why Frieza was doing it? She should have guessed it would be something as ridiculous as that. "Yeah, but, why not get them himself?" Deep down, she knew the answer to that. Frieza was a callous creature. What other reason would there be than that?

"Where's the fun in that?" Vegeta said grimly, sending an icy chill down Bulma's spine.

She leaned forward and felt her way across the floor, crawling on her hands and knees. The action was unplanned, and despite her mind begging her to stop, her body moved mechanically, disobeying. "Wasted effort, if you ask me," she said, making her way closer to him. She just needed to be able to see him, to see that he was alright. It was mind over matter, and her mind had left her when she ruthlessly killed Thomas.

"How is it wasted?" his rough voice croaked, sounding closer, but a little further to the left. "I'll have these dragon balls collected, and he'll get his wish."

Bulma stopped, knowing she was close enough, able to see the faint outline of his muscular frame, hunched down against the wall. She could see enough to know he could see her too, so she remained where she was, a safe two meters from him. She squinted feebly, trying to look him up and down. "Why me, though? Why you?"

The rainfall thumped against the ceiling, as Bulma sat cross-legged, awaiting a response.

"What are you talking about?"

She licked her lips for a moment, feeling her voice growing hoarse. "Before this happened, Frieza said he knew who to pair me up with," she whispered, and let the statement hang in the stuffy air-space.

She was able to see Vegeta shrug, before he nudged lower down the wall.

She let it simmer for a few minutes, aware he still wasn't going to answer, maybe as dumbfounded as she was—maybe not. It didn't matter, truthfully. The fact was they were paired up to _kill_. It shouldn't matter why else. Bulma despised being left in the dark, though, and anyone keeping important information from her was bound to be doing it for a bad reason. She still wanted to find Chichi, and still had hope that they would make it out of this mess with their sanity intact, though Bulma had been hit hard so far. But everything seemed to buzz around her like a static haze, and being such a curious soul, it was hard to let go. What the Namekian said before he died… what the creature said to her… They all knew something she didn't, and she was at the centre of it all. She was a lab rat in a maze.

A deafening howl from a creature-right outside the doors-sent an ice cold whip of fear at Bulma's body. She whimpered, and scrambled onto her knees.

"Stop panicking, wench," Vegeta hissed. "For all we know, these creatures can sense fear. They'll sniff you out if you don't fucking calm down."

She looked in his direction, his image becoming clearer each time as the darkness became a growing part of her fading soul, and she clasped a hand over her mouth, and sank back onto her backside.

There was a feeble scratching at the door, and a huff of breath emanated from the gap at the bottom, but it was lackadaisical, and the creature soon disappeared. Bulma closed her eyes, feeling her body quiver in instant relief. She didn't even want to picture want kind of beast was on the other side of that door a mere few seconds ago. Her mind had begun to conjure nightmarish images of a drooling three headed hound, similar to those in Greek mythology, before she snapped her eyes open again. She had to stop tormenting herself. If Vegeta was right, and that thing _could_ sense fear, it would be back in a shot.

Absentmindedly, she shuffled closer in Vegeta's direction.

"Can you?" she said, her curiosity blooming again.

"Can I what?" he said, his voice strained and coarse.

"Can you sense fear?"

"Amongst other energy levels."

Bulma took her time formulating her next sentence, if she was to get away with it without puncturing the Saiyan's ego. "Is that how you knew the creature was there in the cathedral?"

"No." Vegeta exhaled heavily. "I couldn't sense that demon's energy … It was your pathetic pinch of life-force which gave the game away."

Bulma's eyes fell to the floor, ashamedly. "Oh." It seemed she was more of a liability than she thought. Her behaviour over the last few days was probably the reason why Vegeta was on the brink of death now. She cast her mind back to when she ran, screaming in delight, to the water in the gorge, alerting Burter and Thomas to their whereabouts. She scowled, feeling a pang of guilt towards Vegeta. She shouldn't have, but it consumed her. If anything, he should be grateful he'd been paired up with her. If it wasn't for the dragon radar, they might have only succeeded in gathering one dragon ball, not five.

"How do you it?" Bulma said suddenly, her eyes alight with blue fire, searching the darkness for his. If she reached out, she could touch him.

"Do what?"

"Sense energy."

"With ease," he said, followed by a mucus-filled hack.

"So, I could do it?" Bulma asked, hopefully, leaning forward.

"Tch. Unlikely."

"Please. Let me try," she whispered.

Her words coiled around him like a venomous snake. Was she seriously asking him to _teach_ her to sense energy? The woman must have been out of her mind. He just wanted to be left alone, alone so he could close his eyes as let this treacherous world dissolve completely. But he could see her too clearly in the dark, her azure eyes, abnormally large and hypnotising. She was becoming nothing but a hindrance. His fists clenched, clawing at the floor for anything, but there was nothing to grasp. There was nothing else in the empty hell hole, other than the Earthling female and himself. He was trapped.

"Close your eyes," he uttered, closing his own at the same time. Resolving that there was no other option, he would allow her to _try_, and if she couldn't do it, which was probably going to be the case, then she could fuck off and leave him to rot in peace. He wasn't supposed to be doing any of this. If Frieza was to find out, he would have Vegeta's head on a plate in no time, or, perhaps even let the anklet do its work prematurely, sending him to an early grave (_like Frieza would allow him a grave!)._ It didn't seem such an awful option, given the circumstances he'd found himself in. He was nothing but a shell of his former self. He would rather die the most horrendous of deaths, than carry on in this weak state, dabbling with humans like it was part of the norm.

He took a deep breath, feeling the stabbing pain in his back and chest, where that freak had sent his own damn blast back at him. "Energy is life. Think of life as light, or a beacon, and death as darkness." Vegeta opened his eyes, his mouth falling open slightly at the sight of her. The concentration etched on her face was somehow alluring.

Her lips were dry and flaking, feathered with dead skin. He wanted to lubricate them with his own.

His nails dug into his palms. So it was true; he must have been bordering other-world, because his mind was slipping into a pit filled to the brim with shameful and disgusting thoughts. How could such an abhorrent thought enter his head? He pinched his brow, losing patience with himself.

"Search for the energy source—the light in the dark," he said, watching her intently as her brow furrowed deeper.

What had become of him? He had an instant need to reach out, to see if her face was as soft as it appeared. Everything about this was disturbing and entrancing at the same time. Perhaps he was being lulled into the land of the dead already.

Amongst the endless sea of shadows, there was a miniscule glow. Bulma opened her eyes, slowly, the shock hitting her hard. She did it. But what she found wasn't something to be pleased about. Vegeta's life-force was almost none-existent, like a flickering candle left out in the rain. Without warning, tears pooled at the bottom of her sore eyes, but she wiped them away before they could run down her face, allowing Vegeta the chance to see irretrievable weakness.

No way was she going to cry for someone she barely knew. The point of it was she was going to die, too, except she was pained at the thought of Vegeta dying more so. Her former self was edging its way back in through a small alley way in her mind.

They had _five_ dragon balls. If someone were to find them, it would be easy pickings. That team would valiantly stride through the rest of the game, erasing all their hard work. Bulma wouldn't let that happen. She sat there hopelessly, hands resting idlye in her lap, palms upwards, watching Vegeta's broken frame.

Then there was a sudden bombarding and powerful need for sleep. She fruitlessly pushed it away, while it overwhelmed her, gripping her, as if she was being sedated, or crammed into a false slumber. She shifted on her backside, genuinely assuming she could shake the notion off, but the pressure in her eyes and the front of her head pressed down relentlessly, like someone was closing her and trapping her in a box. Going under would mean dying. She couldn't die. She didn't want to die …

* * *

_When Bulma's vision came to focus, it was apparent that she was not where she was supposed to be, even though she didn't quite know where she belonged anymore. Definitely not in a gloriously flourished field of black roses, somewhere she had been briefly before. She lethargically peeled her face from the ground, taking a few squashed, imprinting rose petals with her, and sat upright to take in her surroundings. She blinked away the weariness, hopeful that the scene before her was in fact real, but by now she knew better. Yes, she'd been here before, when the Namekian touched her arm in the deserted town, which sent her to this exact place, with the exact climate, and—she sniffed the air—the exact smell. The smell was so surreal it almost brought her to tears. Roses, everywhere, as fresh-looking and realistic as the red roses back home, the waxy petals felt so calming under her blistered fingers. Her t-shirt sleeve had miraculously worn off her shoulder, yet another hole had eaten into the fraying fabric, leaving her looking like a dollar-an-hour whore. That didn't matter, though._

_One thing that amazed her about this place was the birds. Not once, in the few days she had been left to wander the barren lands of planet zero-one-six-zero, had she seen, nor been able to hear, a bird. Here, they were flocking in the skies, white doves, contrasting beautifully with the roses. The sun nudged its way between clusters of clouds, brightening the view, opening the world up further, like a Monet painting. It was utterly breath-taking. All too quickly, though, was the sense of peace whipped away from under her feet, when she saw the dark figure standing in the centre of the field again. The same gangly figure she had tried to reach the last time. Was it worth trying again? Obviously so, because her feet seemed to move of their own accord, bringing her closer to the figure at an alarming speed. Was she running? It didn't feel like she was running._

_She stopped, her mouth falling open, aghast._

_The figure revealed itself, pulling down the dark cloak which shrouded its face. It was the creature from the cathedral. The same lavender eyes regarded her, though they had a warm, benevolent tint this time around. His white, hardened face, etched with hundreds of tiny, silver scars, being the only thing she could see. The soft breeze blew the roses, sending tresses of Bulma's tangled hair under her chin. Words wouldn't form. She'd forgotten how to pronounce simple vowel sounds. What was happening to her? The need to scream was all too appealing right now, but to do that would be unrighteous, almost criminal, in such a beautiful place._

_"Greetings, Bulma Briefs," he said, breaking the ominous silence, bowing his head slightly. His eyes crinkled impossibly, enlightened and humorous._

_What about this was funny?_

_Bulma shook her head incredulously, plummeting back to her senses. "Who are you?" She stood closer to him, narrowing her eyes. If this was part of Frieza's game, and he was getting some sort of thrill from it, then she wasn't going to submit to it any longer. She wasn't one to be messed around, and this was just going beyond a joke._

_"It doesn't matter who I am," he said, his face firm suddenly._

_"Yes, it does. I want some answers, Mr-Mystery. I mean, why me? And where the hell am I? How did I even get here?" She spun around, drinking in the too-good-to-be-true atmosphere, letting it all soak into her dry skin._

_The creature shook his head. "You need to give Vegeta the sensu bean now."_

_Her brows lifted, and then drooped solemnly. Whatever was going on, she honestly didn't have the energy to waste on it. How did he-Clearly her subconscious was playing tricks on her again, but she would entertain it for now. "I don't have it—I must've dropped it-"_

_The creature smiled, revealing needle sharp, black teeth. "Check the backpack again."_

_"What?" she said, finding the entire wave of events hard to justify, let alone comprehend._

_He turned away, pulled his hood back over his head. "Once it is done, come and find me. I will answer your questions there and then, not otherwise."_

_"Once what's done? Wait-how do I know where to find you?" Bulma ran forward, but the creature dematerialised into thick plumes of grey smoke. "Wait! No …" she uttered, and fell to her knees, in the field surrounded by black roses.  
_

* * *

She came to with a start, instantly realising that she was still alive, meaning Vegeta was too. The room wasn't as dark as before, as if it had been shifted into hazy daylight, the glow of dawn looming. It wasn't, though. It was still dark outside, and the rain was forever falling. The cold was set into the room, irremovable, despite the two bodies nestling within its space. Those creatures were probably still roaming outside, too. There was no way of telling how much time had passed, but Bulma had an immediate need to run to her bag, to be certain she hadn't completely lost her marbles. So what if she was having crazy dreams? It's only natural for a _normal_ human being, who has been subjected to the tortures of this sadistic game, to become somewhat_—_mentally shaken? The welcomed, unusually harmonious sound of Vegeta's heavy breaths, filling the air, pushed her to get to her feet and grab the backpack. She had to refrain from screaming when jabbing the tender skin on the bottom of her foot on something incredibly sharp, but she made it back in one piece, bag in hand, marbles intact.

Crouching, she delved into the bag, and rummaged, laughter prickling at her throat from how ridiculous the whole thing was. She smirked knowingly, but blanched when her fingers swept over something. She snapped back her hand, as if she'd been stung by something venomous, and glowered at the offending item. How?

Tremulously, hand shaking, she went back in, wrapped her fingers around the item, and tore it free from the containments of the weathered backpack, too sheepish to see if it was what she thought it was. But it couldn't be. Unclenching her hand, it was revealed, sitting precariously right in her palm, its thick, green plastic shell shaking.

Unscrupulously, she chuckled. If she did have marbles, they had well and truly rolled across the floor and scarpered into the four corners of the room. She whipped her head around to scan the room. Was she being followed, all this time, without even being aware of it? A thick sludge of dread enveloped her. The markings on her aircraft - '_Death is coming'. _Could it have been? No.

She shook the useless thought away, and concentrated on what really mattered right now. In her possession was the sensu bean, giving them a chance, giving _Vegeta_ a chance. Something bloomed in her chest, making it feel tight. She shuffled on her knees to Vegeta, trying not to stir him too much. As she reached his side, she was able to get a good look at him, while he wasn't in his most guarded and volatile state. Despite his injuries, and the oozing black eye, he looked peaceful, and she might have gone as far as to say he was quite handsome. There was a strange, though slightly unsettling feeling—it was as if she had known him longer than a few days.

With the sensu bean between her finger and thumb, she poised herself to rouse him from sleep, to drag him back into this world of torment and pain. "Vegeta," she whispered, her hand hovering inches from her lap, her behind lifting from the floor.

A moment passed.

"Vegeta," she said again, daringly placing a dirt-dusted hand on his shoulder. He didn't do anything to deter her, so she shook him gently, his body falling in step with the motion. "You need to eat this."

He groaned, and the noise was so low and helpless, Bulma had to stop herself from choking up. Why was she behaving like this? This guy would kill her if he wasn't so immobile. It was like being in the presence of a sedated lion. His face twisted into a loose knot of pain, and without thinking, she placed her hand on his cheek. It was boiling hot and agleam with sweat. A train of emotions ran nearly collided with her, but she jumped out of the way before they controlled her. "Here," she said, placing the sensu bean into his open mouth. "This is going to help you, I promise." The feel of his skin was too warm, and she couldn't shake the contrast of the raw, cold air circulating the room.

The sensu bean sat there for a few seconds, on the edge of his tongue, without being consumed, or even tasted. Bulma left her hand on Vegeta's face, hoping it would coax him, or even encourage him into eating, but he wasn't doing anything other than barely breathing. What was she meant to do, rub his neck, like you would with a sick puppy, and hope it brings him to swallow the damn thing? In a matter of hours, maybe even minutes, he was going to die. Game over. Finito. Bulma would have to await her own death in the midst of it all, knowing she'd at least _tried_ to help him. Since killing Thomas, everything Bulma did seemed to feel indifferent, like it had lost meaning, like she was a ghost watching from the outside. Being in the presence of someone she cared about was changing that.

Bulma sat back, wide eyed, prising her hand from the comfort of someone else's skin, stunned by her own mental ramblings. She cared? No, she didn't _care_. Who was Vegeta, anyway? Before all this, he could've been an even more hostile killer than he was now, blasting the first person who demurred against anything he said. There was no reason for her to care anymore. She needed a switch in her brain, and just switch everything off. Why was that so hard for her?

It had been easy enough with Yamcha-

In a fluster of uncontrollable anger, she scrambled back over to the far wall, a tirade of past images crashing into her tender mind. Yamcha. She remembered it now, outside her room, on the balcony, watching the autumn sun sink beneath the building tops, Yamcha bending down on one knee. And she rebuffed his offer. She told him she couldn't, but couldn't justify her reason why. She just didn't know what to do.

Stifling a sob, she began to rock back and forth, and closed her eyes, begging for rest, wanting to be taken back to that fucking field again. Why did any of this matter? It didn't. It didn't matter, whatsoever. That was a different world, a different chapter, a different _book_, for fuck sake! With the rage fresh in her pulsing veins, she ragged the knife out of her pocket and slammed it into the ground. A spray of dust and flakes of grit flew into the air, and danced their way back down, landing precisely around the edges of the knife. Her hand still wrapped around the knife, Bulma closed her eyes as the flush of heat drained, and she hoped that maybe, it would take her with it into the dark, freshly revealed, abyss of her own mind.

A yellow flame flickered initially; that's how a fire always started—just a spark. She could see it burning, deep within the shadows of her mind's eye. It grew and grew, until it blazed into an inferno of blue, dazzling light. At first, she thought it was the light of Other World, drawing her in, but then she felt the raw energy of it, the warmth it cast over to her, like she was able to glimpse its power. _His _power.

"Human, I demand to know what it was you gave to me," a rough, but perfectly healthy sounding voice said from the other side of the room.

Bulma opened her eyes, and a small smile crept upon her tired face. There he was, faintly visible under the veil of darkness, _standing_, pinching the skin on his face, as if his state was too absurd to believe. She could tell that he was trying to shield his astonishment, but try as he did: a miraculous recovery was always going to beg for questions.

Without getting up, she said, "It doesn't matter. You're OK now." Getting over the momentary glee of seeing Vegeta healthy again, Bulma still had to contend with the knowledge that the game was very much still on. That meant more death, more confusion, more delirium, and a higher risk of her losing herself completely. If she survived, of course. Thinking carefully about it, Bulma decided that dying wasn't such a bad deal, anymore. The likelihood of her retaining any of her humanity was a very delicate string which was bound to snap at some point. She sighed, and yanked the knife from the dry grasp of the ground, carefully slotting it back in her pocket.

"It fucking matters to me. You do not throw your witch-craft at me, and expect me to be _OK_ with it." Vegeta slumped back down, pleased with the new found sensation of all his limbs, yet still dumbfounded by how it was plausible. Plus, being a Saiyan, his strength had trebled, substantially increasing his chances of getting what he wanted, and more.

Bulma sneered, "Witch-craft," and laced her boots back up. "It was a sensu bean, something from back home. It replenishes your health completely."

Vegeta scowled. "You had this _sensu_ bean this entire-sodding- time, and you didn't think to hand it over sooner?"

She snapped her head up to glare at him maliciously, sending him daggers laced with poison. "Look, Vegeta, I'm not the enemy here." With her memory making its heavy appearance, she didn't have the time for his sharp attitude.

"Ha! Explain yourself, human. How was your hiding something as powerful as this so-called sensu bean not a shitty deal?"

She couldn't see his face, but knew that if she could, she would want to punch it even more. How was she to explain how she came across the mysterious sensu bean? She couldn't humour him with her dreams, and the creature within those dreams, communicating with her. The whole thing was so fucked up she wondered how she was ever going to go on any further. Why couldn't Vegeta just be grateful that he still lived?

"Oh, I get it now. That's how you healed yourself in the space shuttle that brought us here. I see. You wanted to keep the next one for yourself, you selfish bitch," he remarked.

His words tore through her like a rusty knife, carving away at what little composure she had left to hold onto. "I gave it to you, didn't I?" she said, the volume of her voice pressing into her throat, teasing her, wanting her to shout. But shouting would mean alerting whatever sort of hellish demon was outside that door.

"But you made sure I suffered, didn't you? You wanted me to _feel_ pain, didn't you?"

Bulma shot up, her fingers itching to feel the knife in her pocket. "I thought I'd lost it." She shook her head indignantly. "I'm not explaining myself to you, you ungrateful prick." The pulse in her neck was beating so rapidly it was starting to make her dizzy. She wavered on the spot, desperately fighting against herself to not act rashly.

What was he waiting for? By now she had expected a bit of strangulation or being beaten to a mushy pulp and left to think about how she'd spoken to such an illustrious warrior. But there was nothing. No back-lash, no biting remark. _Nothing._

Silence thickened in the barely breathable air, setting an invisible barrier between the two life forms, one which both knew not to tread across willingly.

"There are a few hours until dawn. We'll continue then," he said, in smooth, calming tones, as if it was the natural way to push the conversation in to less hostile territory.

"Wha—" Bulma muttered, utterly amiss with the situation, reaching to swap her burning forehead with the hem of her rotten t-shirt.

It was then that they came to a voiceless agreement, when Bulma dejectedly sank to the freezing ground, closed her eyes, and surely dreaded the approaching dawn, where they would, once again, search planet zero-one-six-zero for the remaining two dragon balls.


	8. Chapter 8 - Day Three

A/N - This chapter is a bit gory. Well, it's not really, but there is some nasty stuff in it that readers may find offensive, so be warned! Enjoooooyyyyyyy.

Thanks to Adli for being my beautiful beta!

Chapter Eight - Day three

Ripe for Picking

Frieza's ship loomed over the blood-red planet that was Krula, the planet's contours dripping and congealing like a freshly mutilated piece of flesh. Thousands of fires burned, sending streams of blackened smog into the atmosphere and beyond. If Frieza listened carefully, he could hear the delayed screams of the inhabitants, coursing through the division between Krula and the empty depths of outer-space. It was a tiresome feat, having to endure the same painstaking sobs of each planet's demise, but someone had to do it, didn't they? So, Frieza sat back, a lion-like yawn stretching his ruby lips, and swivelled in his chair, away from the giant glass window which depicted the sorry sight of a crumbling planet Krula, and back to the matter in hand.

His eyes blazed with indignation as he leaned over the holographic image of planet zero-one-six-zero, its blue, jittering light, buzzing quietly, as if it knew to stay reserved under the tyrant's deadly glare; one wrong move, and it too, would be destroyed in seconds. What was really getting under Lord Frieza's skin was the lack of entertainment in his little game. It had been three days and the whole charade had gotten off to the most mesmerising of starts, seeing the loss of four teams already, but it had been twelve hours since anything remotely worth batting an eye at had happened, and he was becoming tired. There was no second option, Frieza was going to wait this game out until the time was over—that was his deal; his promise. It didn't mean he wasn't entitled to make it more interesting for the fans, now, did it? As it stood, he was quite a fair distance away from the planet itself, and perhaps his lab rats had forgotten the reason they were put on that mud ball in the first place. Not to worry, because he would remind them soon enough, when the time was right and the fruit was ripe for picking. But when he looked at the current game statistics, it was absurdly clear that his loyal monkey prince had gathered five dragon balls, without gaining so much as a kitten's scratch.

Frieza licked his lips, lavishing them with his poisonous saliva, and he leaned closer to the holographic orb, his face almost dipping into the planet's image. There they were—the three remaining teams. They were so far away from each other, and it would probably take them a lot longer than the four days they had left to reach each other, which meant no show. What fun was a game, if the participants cornered themselves? _Cowards_, he thought vehemently, his claws digging into the leather arms of his seat, rendering the material easily. He was a genius, a master of war and corruption, he knew what could and couldn't be done. He would think of something, but for now, he was exhausted. Three days occupying his time between ordering a purge on two different planets, and keeping an eye as the game on planet zero-one-six-zero unfurled, had worked its way under his sleek skin. He would rest, and take to the luxuries of his position of power by having a steaming bath, filled with the whores he'd had brought to him from the now long forgotten planet Krula.

His eyes glittered as they moved onto Zarbon, who was watching his Lord's every move with promise. It irritated Frieza. He still saw hope in the green warrior's eyes, the same hope he saw when he first took him in, straight after wiping out his mother and father, along with the rest of his putrid race. Whether Zarbon saw Frieza as a father figure or not was an anomaly, one which turned Frieza's stomach one hundred times over.

"Zarbon," Frieza hissed, getting out of his chair.

Zarbon's face lit up with high spirit. "Yes, your lordship."

"I am retiring for several hours, and in that time I want you to watch over this dreadful excuse of a game," he spat, showing very little regards to the tall, green fighter, who was practically heeling to him.

"Yes, as you wish, Lord Frieza," he said, dipping his head in loyal obedience.

Before sauntering out of the room, Frieza turned towards Zarbon once more, his lips curling into a sinister grin. "Make it interesting, if you can manage. And keep an eye on my favourite ape, would you?"

Zarbon could only nod, as just the tip of Frieza's tail, slinking out the door was left to see. The warrior physically relaxed, his dread ebbing as his adrenaline kicking in. Frieza had outdone himself once again with this game, and allowing him to take the reins for a while was the utmost form of flattery. He was honoured. Every fibre in his body racked with joy as he braced his arms either side of the metal control panel for planet zero-one-six-zero. His eyes traced the planet's outer shell, waiting to fall on the team he despised the most, the Saiyan prince who, even when dumped in the deepest pile of shit, still came out gleaming like a Krularian crystal. His eyes narrowed with determination when he saw the two yellow dots, unmoving on the East sector of the planet.

"Gotcha," he whispered sensually.

Lord Frieza had given him a task. He would not disappoint.

* * *

The anklet: a device so small and powerful, it had to have been created by the sharpest minds in the universe. If Bulma had been chosen as a contender in this game, because of her flawless ingenuity, then surely she, too, was one of the sharpest minds in the universe. With that fact labouring heavily in her mind, she found it hard to justify why she couldn't work the damn device out. She had spent hours twisting it and prodding it, only causing herself more harm over success. So far, she had tugged it so much in one direction that her skin had bruised immensely, leaving a halo of violet around one of the bolts. No pain, no gain, she thought, as she sat studying it further. It was such a simple-looking contraption, but at the same time, so intricate. One bolt and a ring of metal. That was it. But the only way to really get rid of it was to remove the rest of the ankle. Somehow, that wasn't so appealing, though more appealing than it had been two days ago.

She sat under the faint cover of a dying bush, its bristling branches scratching her bottom, forcing her to shift constantly, and deterring her from her moment of concentration. They had been on their way out of the city, Vegeta marching several paces ahead while she trudged in tow, wandering under the pelting rain. Just when they reached the outskirts, Vegeta halted their advancements with a single hand—a wordless order for Bulma's eyes. At first she thought it was another mutant creature lurking in the shadows, but when she twisted around to see nothing but the lifeless streets of the lost city, she calmed and allowed the real confusion to crawl over her. Vegeta told her to 'sit and wait for him, like a good little bitch,' and then he stalked off behind a building.

Bulma wanted to be mad at him—she did, but also couldn't help the knowing chuckle that fed its way past her lips, while she watched him turn a nearby corner. One thing crossed her mind: Toilet break. Well, it _had_ been three days, and though she hadn't had her eyes glued to him, she still hadn't seen him take to nature's calling, at all. But, as she hunched underneath the gangly branches of her shelter, she began to notice the amount of time he'd been gone. It had been almost fifteen minutes, and she sure as hell wasn't going to wander round there looking to see what he was doing. The real point was her heart was still beating, so Vegeta's must have been too. Whatever scraps of a heart he actually did possess …

She sneered to herself as she pulled her boot back on, yet again, feeling the slither of the wet leather sliding up her pale legs. Since his strength had replenished from the sensu bean, Vegeta was practically dragging her along without a word or whisper. He very rarely looked at her, and on the special occasions that he did, it was only the snarl at her or send her glares laden with so much hate she could almost feel them piercing her skin. He didn't frighten her, though. What could he do? She said this to herself over and over, like a mantra. But who was she trying to convince? The anklet held the real power here, and with that on, he couldn't hurt her. Well, he couldn't _kill_ her. She'd took so much of a disliking to the sullen warrior that she would much prefer to be killed by whatever roamed the city at night, than by his hands. His hands had undoubtedly been soiled with the blood of thousands already; she didn't need to give him hers, too.

Inconspicuously, Bulma pawed through the backpack, knocking aside the dragon balls with a soft _jangle_, and placed her fingers upon the single most alluring thing she'd found in the room they stayed in the previous night—a book. When the dawn had broken, and Vegeta had walked out the room, leaving the door wide open, it had allowed a blade of light to shine through. Amongst the mass of what looked like mouse droppings all over the floor, there was little of interest. Except the book, which had been lying in the far corner of the room, its brown, leather bound cover begging to be touched. Needless to say, Bulma had snatched it up and stuffed it in the bag before Vegeta could get wind of it. God forbid he found her picking up souvenirs on their journey.

Now, she had it in her hands, surprised by its immaculate condition, but also suspicious. She brushed a thumb over the front cover, wiping away a layer of dust, leaving a pathway of a shade darker. The writing on the front was of another language, but it left her wanting to read through it more, to delve into the morsel of this planet's history. By finding this book, Bulma was able to imagine the streets of this city when it was in its prime, overflowing with inhabitants going about their day, just like she did when she was on Earth. This book reminded Bulma that this planet did have life, and they were civilised and they read. Something tightened in her gut.

What happened to this place?

She shook it from her head, and carefully pulled back the front cover, flicking through the frayed pages. It was all scripture, every single page filled with this foreign language. Give her a few weeks and she could decipher what the words read, but now it was hopeless. Flicking listlessly through the pages, Bulma concurred with her instinct that it was some sort of religious scripture, like a bible. Some pages stood out, reading like songs or hymns, and some were just blocks of texts with the odd hint of speech here and there. Nothing of too much interest.

She sighed, and a blob of rain ran from the crown of her head, through her hair, irritatingly slow, and onto her forehead, before she wiped it away. She snapped the book shut, but something caught her eye as she did so. One of the pages at the very back had been bent, dog-eared, like a book mark. Her interest spiked again, and before she checked it out, she lifted her head, searching for any signs of Vegeta. Grateful to see that he wasn't coming back any time soon, she peeled it open, pinching the right page in place with her littler finger, and her jaw dropped at the image which was revealed—the first image she had seen in the book. It was a drawing, and darn good one, too. It was beach with a cove, and within the cove there was a very distinct cave, ominous, but inviting at the same time. The golden sands and deep, unknown crevices of the cave called to her; it sang almost, and her mind responded with such desire to know what was inside that cave that she broke out in a cold sweat. Unbeknown to Bulma, she had to get to that cave. Wherever it was, she had to find it, because something was telling her to. Something at the back of her mind, deep in the shadowy film of darkness, was screaming at her to find out where it was, but at the same time, she already knew.

"Where did you get that?"

Bulma jumped, slamming the book shut and tossing it back in the bag. Her eyes raked Vegeta's bulky frame until they met his accusing stare. She shook her head, standing up. "It's just some old book I found in that cellar," she said, trying to conceal the annoying stammer she'd picked up all of a sudden.

His eyes narrowed at her, judging her wrongly, like she was the one who had a mass murderous past. Then he turned, and paced off, without another word.

Bulma gawped at the Saiyan. What right did he have, giving her that attitude, when he had been up to God knows behind a building for twenty minutes? She was furious, her blood zipping through her body, cajoling her to do something drastic.

When she reached the aircraft, she'd already concocted a smooth plan, one which Vegeta would have to comply, because he wouldn't know otherwise. She needed to get to that cave. She still didn't know why, but it was a yearning she couldn't ignore, even if it meant her dying in the process. But there would be no way Vegeta would go off course for something so trivial and meaningless. To him, there was one goal. So she had to pull the veil over his eyes for a while. That while being as long as it took to reach _her_ goal.

_'Once it is done, come and find me.'  
_  
The voice played in her mind like a broken record.

So far her gut instinct had been on point.

Her hand trembled as her fingers traced the rough claw marks on her ship, '_Death is coming'_; the words that could only be distinguished as a threat, but to her meant something more. They gave her hope.

"Check the radar," Vegeta said, leaning against the metal body work of the ship, one shoulder taking his weight. In any other circumstances, he just looked like a guy waiting patiently for a bus or train.

Bulma pulled the radar out of her damp jeans pocket, like she had mentally rehearsed, and smiled at Vegeta, who remained indifferent to her actions. She pushed lightly on the button that brought the device to life, but not hard enough to track the nearest dragon ball, and she used her high school drama skills to their fullest, sighing with feigned disheartened breath and slumping her shoulders.

"It's miles away from here," she said, keeping her eyes trained on the empty screen of the radar, hoping not to spark Vegeta's curiosity too much.

"It doesn't matter how far it is, you half-wit. We're going to get it, even if it takes the rest of our miserable existence," he barked, his lip curling to reveal glistening canines.

Bulma held back a gasp, grabbing the radar tight to stop her cowering. "Alright. It's—" She had to think on her feet, and at the same time follow her own guidance. "It's five hundred miles South," she blurted, shocked by the immediacy of the answer.

Vegeta held his hands up in mock appraisal. "That wasn't so hard, was it, little human?" he said in dark, suggestive tones, his eyebrow arching.

Bulma shivered, unsure whether it was out of fear, the cold, or something deeper than that.

Without any more distractions, Vegeta passed her, shoulder barging her with just enough strength to knock her back a pace. Bulma's eyes widened with shock, before narrowing with annoyance, and she jumped into her ship, taking her backpack and sanity with her. This could be costly.

Flying through the air at an abysmally slow speed was bad enough, but when Vegeta caught the acrid stench of a burning engine, coupled with the caterwauling of the woman, his fury boiled to an unreadable temperature. As soon as the smoke tickled his nostrils, he halted his travels and turned at just the right time to see the woman's ship plummeting towards the ground. They kept relatively low anyway, in case this was ever to happen, or if it disrupted their one hundred meter entitlement. So when he saw her burning to the ground, he did not fear that she would break their boundary, and he did not care for the little suffering her landing would cause. The real problem was that the ship was clearly unstable, maybe even permanently damaged. His eyes remained slits as he descended, and he landed a few seconds post her crashing into sand.

A spray of dust leapt into the air and floated down silently.

Vegeta touched down, apprehensively waiting for the few seconds it took her to compose herself and evacuate the smoking vehicle. Out of curiosity and nothing more, he checked her life-force, closing his eyes for a couple seconds. She was fine—just as he thought. Something about it didn't seem to sit right with him. The ship couldn't have combusted for no reason whatsoever, but then he didn't know the mechanics of an Earth built vehicle. Perhaps he had taken this Earthling's so-called intelligence to heart. Perhaps she was no more intelligent than a fly around shit. That wasn't true, and deep down he knew it. Begrudgingly, Vegeta noted that he would be nothing more than a rotting, stinking carcass, laying under a pile of rubble if it wasn't for the Earth woman. But he did not owe her anything. None of that was meant to have happened.

Bulma groaned, peeling her head from the ship's control panel, fumes floating aimlessly and gathering in her lungs. She rubbed her temple, pulling back her hand to see spots of blood. Great, another wound to go with the rest of the collection. If she did get out of this mess alive, she was going to look worse than Frankenstein's monster. Quickly, she grabbed her stuff and jumped out the vehicle and onto the sponge of wavy sand. The uneven ground beckoned her to flop to the floor, but she regained her composure as she stood back, solemnly eyeing the demise of her vehicle. Her heart sank as plumes of smoke snaked from the bonnet of the ship. This ship was the only speck of light she saw in this game, and even that had been cruelly snatched away from her. When she travelled in the ship, she felt alone, isolated, even though Vegeta was a few meters ahead. It felt like she was home, just nipping out to take a leisurely drive around the desolate scenery the Earth possessed. Everything about that ship screamed home. Now it was nothing more than a heaping wreck of roasting metal, ready for scraps.

She had to fix it. There had to be some way.

Vegeta was aiming his deadly stare at her again, and eventually she gave in and looked his way, wishing she hadn't, because he starting advancing towards her, disdain dripping off his heavy steps. She stood tall, squaring her shoulders, awaiting his arrival, but he stopped to drink in the sight of the sinking ship. Bulma's heart began beating quicker, and she was almost tempted to thump her chest with her fist to tame it. The last thing she wanted to show Vegeta was fear, even if it was minimal. What she was scared about, though, was the fate of her ship, and whether he was about to blow it up himself. She didn't know.

"I'm gonna try and fix it. Give me ten minutes to check it out," she said, turning her attention pointedly to the ship in question, avoiding the daggers being sent her way.

Vegeta wondered whether there was a conspiracy going on here. When he looked at the Earthling, he'd expected her to grovel and whimper, claiming that he would have to carry her the rest of the way, but he was stumped to see that her first plan of action was to fix something that, frankly, looked irreparable. It was pointless what she was trying to do. But something about it showed her in a different light. Time and time again, this woman surprised him, and he found himself allowing her to do what she pleased. Would he let her do this, too? His brow furrowed deeper. No, he would not, because he was not going to be shown up, not when his every move was being monitored by that great, lizard-bastard, Frieza.

The time wasted from sifting through the most futile decision had given human the time to open the ship's bonnet and lean in. He eyed her with distasteful scrutiny as she leaned deeper into the vehicle, the smoke channelling around her curved body, her t-shirt riding up revealing the soft dimples on the small of her back.

Forget it. She could have five minutes, and no longer.

Fifteen minutes passed and Bulma finally emerged from the bonnet, closing it with a heavy _clunk_. She wiped the grey grease from her face with her forearm, and she scanned the roasting, parched land for Vegeta, only to find him leaning against the other side of the ship. The bad news was the ship was broken, damaged beyond repair. Somehow there was a hole in exhaust, hence the grating rattling noise she'd been hearing for the last hour. The strange thing was that the hole looked like it had been made with something sharp, not just a case of corroding metal. What with all the rain, Bulma could have justified the exhaust becoming rusted and punctured, but the hole was too neat, too precise. With all the strange things that were going on, she didn't want to think about what may or may not have happened to her ship. It wasn't working anymore, and that was that.

She just had to think of an ulterior option.

"Well, it's completely bust," she said, throwing her hands out, defeated. "I don't get it. The hole in the exhaust—"

"Check the radar," Vegeta cut in sharply, straightening up, his face a mask of coldness and loathing.

Bulma thrust her hands on her hips, truly baffled how he could be so dismissive all the time. There she was trying to fix her only mode of transport, and the one thing he could think to say was 'check the radar'? She wasn't a robot whose sole purpose in life was him to tell him where to go next. She wasn't a satnav. She was a human being, and it was about time he treated her like one.

"Is that all you're going to say to me?" She shook her head, and rolled her eyes in disbelief. She needed to keep her composure, and keep him from knowing they were heading entirely in the wrong direction from where the next dragon ball was. "We're still too far, and now my ship is broken," she said, pointing to the still steaming aircraft.

The skin on Vegeta's hands tightened as he clenched his fists to his sides, trying not to send a bolt of energy right into this woman's face. There was too much confidence in her speech and demeanour when she was with him. At first she was like a petrified mouse, and he thrived off the fear he saw flittering in her blue orbs, but now she was talking to him as if he was a fellow human, throwing her venom slicked tongue his way. He exhaled. "You better find another one then," he muttered.

"What?" Bulma gawked. "I can't just _find_ another ship. I don't have the resources. Do you think I can just magic up the right tools and material from thin air?" She huffed and threw her arms across her chest, subliminally pressing Vegeta beyond his limits.

"I don't fucking care what you do, as long as you get your scrawny ass into gear," he spat, inching closer to her, despite his best efforts. He couldn't allow her to talk to him this way much longer. Never, in all his time serving Frieza, had anyone spoken to him in such a manner. He would have decapitated them limb from limb before they could even think to speak to him like this woman was.

That fucking anklet was driving him insane.

Maybe this was all part of the test. To get him so riled up over this pretentious princess that it drove him to kill her without thinking. But he would never succumb to that. He always put himself first, and killing that woman would mean for him to slip down a notch. His rage wavered slightly, like a blazing fire in a thunderstorm.

"You need to watch who you're speaking to," she spat, turning her head to the side.

That was it, Vegeta thought, as he charged for her, full speed, seeing nothing but red. "No, human, you need to be wary with whom you are answering back to." He wrapped his fingers around her slender neck, pressing her up against the body of the ship, molding his body into hers.

She gasped, kicking her legs violently, but to little avail. She was far too weak to leave even a scratch. He was surprised at how much fight she had in her, and how easily he could potentially snap her neck, but he wouldn't.

Not now, anyway.

"You should count yourself lucky, bitch," he snarled, his hot breath catching her already scorching cheeks. "You saw the state Pui Pui had left that Namekian in." Words began to fail him when he saw the unwavering defiance in her eyes as she glowered back at him. It was as if she _wanted _him to hurt her, egging him on try his worst. He was squeezing hard enough to get his point across, but not hard enough to really do her any harm. One move, though, and he could cause serious damage.

Bulma's eyes narrowed as she looked into the black pools of her Saiyan assassin, seeing a bit more than the hate he so constantly displayed. She saw a flash of doubt, and maybe panic. Was he struggling with himself to make a decision?

He didn't know what to do with her.

"Would you prefer it if I treated you like that?" He stared into her widening eyes, a want to stroke her face, leering out from the darkness in his soul.

"You wouldn't," she rasped.

He let go, and she slid down the metal, instantly going into her pocket for the knife. She pulled it out and pointed it at his chest.

Dumbfounded, he looked down to see the tiny blade, and couldn't control the laughter that rumbled out of his throat. She looked so determined and fearless, but for what?

"You think that thing is going to save you?"

She frowned, pulling the knife back, a crimson hue slapping her cheeks. "It helped me get this far, didn't it?" she bit back, stepping up to him.

Her eyes shimmered at her words, like there was something excitable about saying them, like every syllable ignited a spark.

She felt like she could defend herself to some extent. Even if Vegeta did have the upper hand, she would go down fighting. He would not dissuade her from getting to that cave. It brought a darker side out of her, one she didn't know existed. Perhaps she was possessed with need. Whatever it was, she didn't want him pushing her around in the other direction, no matter how strong he was. He may have the upper hand in terms of strength, but she was still the genius here. And he could be outsmarted with simple tactics.

Vegeta failed to move away from her, as the animalistic growl left his mouth. "Let's see how much further it gets you," he said, and stalked off through the sand, leaving Bulma shaking. But, again, it wasn't from fear.

Two painstaking hours later, frazzling slowly under the forty five degree heat, Bulma dragged her aching legs through the flurry of sand, her leather boots heavy and her feet gloopy with sweat. Always behind and never ahead. That's where she was, squinting at Vegeta's heat-wave-engorged frame in the near distance. How, when Goku was so sweet, so generous, was this guy of the same race? It didn't make sense. Sure, they were different people, but surely they shared some characteristics. Vegeta was well built and had a thick head of jet black hair, similar to Goku, but Goku was much taller and his body didn't move as gracefully. There was a certain air about Vegeta. The way he walked with such purpose in every stride. There was no point in comparing the two Saiyans, because there were entirely different beings, but it was just another mind numbing thought that sat in her head. What else could she think about? She had to keep herself to herself at all times, especially while she had the guilt of the unwarranted journey to the non-existent cave in the midst of everything. At any minute she could blab the truth to Vegeta, and then God knows what; he'd most likely choke her to death, seeing as that was his favoured choice of attack.

He could've really hurt her before, but he didn't. That must've meant something. Was she cracking his hard exterior? There was definitely someone else hidden under all that bravado, though she didn't know whether she wanted to find out. A painful gargling resounded from her stomach, gripping and vibrating, roaring for food. She had checked the bag an hour ago, only to find that she'd ran out of supplies, having been far too generous to herself last night, by eating the remaining three capsules of dried fruit. That didn't even satisfy the burning hunger. To be honest, she hadn't planned on making it this far. When Vegeta was taken ill, Bulma had conceded with herself that she was going to die, so eating what she had left didn't seem like such a selfish thing to do. How was she to know the creature from her dreams was going to lend a helping hand?

Oh, she wanted to yell, yell at nothing just for the sake of yelling. She hadn't been able to let out her frustrations in a while now.

_Hot fudge Sunday, with lashings of fresh, extra thick double cream._

Bulma groaned, looking back longingly at the stretches of sand, pitted with the lonely footsteps of two wanderers who didn't know each other. They'd walked so far she couldn't see anything but sand behind her. She was pretty sure her feet were blistered, too. The stinging on her instep was way too intense. To take her mind off her battered feet, she took in the rest of her surroundings. Sand, sand and more sand. Huge dunes to the left and right. They were walking in a valley of sand dunes, except there was nothing down the middle. Did this place look any different when planet zero-one-six-zero was thriving? Or was a desert always a desert?

Her attention was drawn to a dark green lump, poking out the sand, just to the left, nestled on the steeper slope of a dune. Blades of desert weeds cradled it protectively, trying to hide it from Bulma's hungry eyes, but in this place it stuck out like a sore thumb, screaming to be examined further. Vegeta mustn't have spotted it, because he'd passed it already, his stormy footsteps taking him elsewhere, but Bulma's eye raked the sight as she grew closer and closer to it. Languidly, she slogged over to it, her breath rasping over her dry tongue, and she dug up the slope. Her eyes widened, blue sparks blazing, when the green lump became more prominent to her deprived vision. It was—no it wasn't. Was it? A watermelon? It was a watermelon! Lying in the desert. The lime green stripes smoothed across its glossy skin only proved her guessing to be correct. Hurriedly, salivating, she threw her backpack aside and scraped her way over to it, hands clawing at the boiling sand, arms flailing everywhere. Vegeta's whereabouts had flown out the window, because this girl had found a watermelon. If her mind was playing tricks on her, then let it, but there was certainly no harm in trying to survive, was there?

Finally, she reached it, the giant fruit reflecting in her eyes as she stared, disbelieving its existence. It was a perfectly formed watermelon. A huge smile spread across her face, and she excitedly pushed her sweaty hair away before bending down to grab the delectable fruit. How she was going to crack it open was another question, but she was sure Vegeta wouldn't mind helping out, once he realised what it was she'd found. Her small hands barely covered the two ends of the fruit as she tried to tug it free from the sand. Either it was extremely heavy, or it was stuck at the root. She glared at it and bent her knees this time to get better leverage, and pulled again, nearly putting her back out. The damn thing didn't want to move. She pulled and pulled, the rivulets of sweat pouring down her face, but it wouldn't budge.

"What the _hell _are you doing?" Vegeta shouted, almost breaching their one hundred meters, his arms crossed and his face fixed with bewilderment.

Ignoring him, and growing insanely frustrated, Bulma booted the watermelon, hoping it would crack open and spill its heavenly juices for her to take. Nope, it was stuck.

"Nothing, Vegeta. It's nothing to do with you," she said, kicking again for good measure.

No way was she giving up on it. Her face was growing a deep shade of crimson, partly from exhaustion, but more so from embarrassment, knowing she was now under heavy scrutiny. Finally, she took out her knife and plunged it deep into the outer case, hearing a strange, demonic squealing, resounding from beneath the sand. Immediately, she retrieved the knife, and then her body went stiff, stricken with dread.

The floor beneath her started to rumble, easily knocking her backwards and down the dune in a tumbling mess. Dirt clogged her mouth and eyes, and she scurried to regain her balance, the floor quaking and sheets of sand cascading from the dune's peak.

Something latched onto her leg; thousands of needles piercing her skin, wrenching it and tearing it further down her calve. Bulma bellowed out, a searing inferno of pain engulfing, and she blindly began smacking her leg where she felt it the most. The thing pulled and pulled, screeching and squawking, until she relented, allowing it to drag her through the sand. Beneath hooded lids, she saw it. Its body was gigantic, striped green, covered in thorns, owning hundreds of legs, its mouth crammed with fangs and frothing saliva. It looked like a giant centipede, and she'd mistakenly been hacking away at the end of its tail. It was dragging her through the burning sand, and she couldn't think to scream anymore, but she wasn't going to throw in the towel. With all the frustration built up over the last day, she wrapped her hand around the knife, spluttering from the oncoming onslaught of grit, and began swiping and stabbing at whatever had locked around her leg. The crunching of her attack connecting with bone resonated like music to her ears. She jabbed continuously, hitting the target, rendering layers of flesh beneath the spikes, leaving it in a frayed mess, inches away from inflicting upon herself.

Globs of green goo spattered into her face and hair, but she overrode it, continuing to fight. Where was this thing taking here?

Her energy ebbed, and so did her will to carry on, and after what felt like hours of fighting back, she acquiesced to the creature, releasing her weapon in defeat, and throwing her arms back into the sand, letting it drift over her completely.

She was going to die. This was it.

The creature cracked and creaked, its shoulders began to spasm from side to side, and a pair of wings broke free from its glassy membrane, spurting sparkling green goo everywhere. It wasn't long before Bulma felt her body lift off the ground, the skin on her leg almost tearing clean off the bone. The hot blood ran down her calve, soaking into her jeans, and all she could think of was letting go. She wasn't going to get to the cave, and her questions were not going to be answered. Her body swung back and forth in the air as the creature took flight. Her world grew darker, and she let it seep into her blood stream, like a long awaited dream. All that she'd done in her life, never did she dream that it would end like _this_. It was actually quite funny.

She began to laugh as the wind lapped at her face, but her laugh became muffled and blotted out, when a pair of arms wrapped around her body, painfully ripping her free from the creature's deadly clutch. With a thud that knocked the air clean out of her lungs, Bulma's back smacked a bed of sand, and she was concealed in darkness—still alive.

What a sorrowful mess he'd gotten himself into. Vegeta covered the woman's body with his own, turning his head back to scan where that disgusting beast had taken its sorry self. But now it was plummeting towards them with such ferocity, he had to act quickly. Outstretching his arm, he cast a small ball of energy into its direction, which zipped through the air at the blink of an eye. It impacted just between the thing's temple, cracking its skull, and a firework of green gloop exploded in the air and proceeded to rain down on them. Vegeta whipped his head back round, burying his face in the sand, instinctively lowering his body down on the woman to cover her from the downpour of entrails. The splodges thudded against his body, bouncing off the hollow casing of his armour. Big globs of it dribbled down his arms, making him shudder. The rancid smell almost provoked a gag—like chlorine and … stale vomit—forcing him to press his face harder into the sand, all the while the woman remained relatively still beneath him. He could feel the warmth emanating just below his collar bone from her steady breath, the rise and fall of her chest, pressing against his.

It felt surreal.

When the last few drops patted against the sand, Vegeta heaved himself up onto his forearms, shaking the sand—and anything else—from his hair like a wet dog. Reluctantly, his eyes wandered over to the wide eyed woman, and it made the muscles in his chest constrict. All of a sudden, he remembered that they were out in the desert; feeling like he was picking up a fever. He could see her pulse fluttering in her neck, and his first thought was to place his lips over it, to feel it and own it, and have it all to himself. The smell of her skin wafted into his senses, making everything else seem hazy. She smelled like a meadow in the heat of summer, where the trees blew soundlessly and the birds chirped sweet melodies. Somewhere Vegeta desperately wanted to go.

Her eyes flickered with a spark of desire, and he saw it as clear as day, though it was only a fraction of a second.

She was attracted to him. After all, it wasn't surprising.

He found himself wanting to stay there, looking down at this woman and much more. He could feel the dark desire growing like a stalk, making its way out of his blackened soul and into his mind, transgressive, asking him to go beyond what he had set out to do.

There was a laceration on the woman's face, blood leaking from the tiny cut. His body tensed, and something twitched in his groin, as his hand acted of its own accord, running the rough pad of his thumb tenderly across her perfect, soft cheek, catching the red droplets. Nonplussed, she blinked as he carried out the action. He rubbed the blood between his finger and thumb, burnishing her essence into his skin. Any other time, he would have run his tongue across the cut.

She was like a wilted flower in the desert, so brittle and fragile, but still owned so much beauty. Underneath him like this, she was under his control.

Bulma couldn't breathe. She gazed up into his dark, brooding eyes, which were clouded with lust, and she found herself unable to think straight. None of her limbs would work. It was more preferable when he was strangling her. At least that way she knew to defy him, but underneath his powerful body like this, she didn't want to move. And it terrified her. Not because she wouldn't be able to push him away from her in her wildest dreams, but because she didn't want to. Him towering over her like this sparked something deep down, mainly in the pit of her stomach, sending flutters and waves of need into the tightly confound space she'd wound up in. Somehow he had closed off the rest of the world, leaving them isolated, and truly making her realise that he was here, not stalking off somewhere in the distance. They were both two living beings now. Now that he was paying her his full attention, she didn't know what to do with it. The heat rushed around her body, and she wanted him to close in on her, to take every inch of her, and help her escape reality for a while.

"I see your little blade didn't save you this time," he said.

Her breath hitched when he brought his full lips down to her ear, and he whispered, "You are more trouble than you're worth, Earthling," in silky, honey tones that made her body melt further into the ground.

He exhaled, and the warmth of his breath paralysed her, sucking her into the sand.

Something twanged in Vegeta's ankle, primarily from the anklet, but he was far too caught up to pay it much notice. But when it twanged again, he snarled, shaking it away like it was a bothersome fly nibbling at his leg. A big part of him knew that what he was doing was a bad idea, but he couldn't stop himself. Irritatingly, a sharp sting shot up his leg, causing him to arch his back. A set of crackling bolts of electricity snapped through the arteries in his leg and channelled through his body, rendering him writhing in agony. He rolled away from the woman and onto his knees, his hands feverishly searching for the root of the pain. It ran through his nervous system, vibrating at such a velocity Vegeta's brain started to swirl and his gut started to flip, churning up the remnants of stomach acid. It felt like someone had set him alight. He roared out, clasping his heart, as that seemed to be where the pain had focused. It was the woman. She had put some sort of spell on him. Witch-craft. And now he was paying the price. As quickly as the surrendering thoughts loomed, the pain subsided and petered out like a distant nightmare, and Vegeta was left panting under the leering desert sun.

"Vegeta, what happened?" he heard her soothing voice say, but it was no more welcoming than a smack in the mouth.

Her tiny fingers wrapped around his forearm, and he violently shoved her away.

He knew what had happened. The realisation loomed over him like a tidal wave. Frieza was still watching and controlling. He obviously deemed what Vegeta had done as miserable and weak, so this was his punishment. That _fucking_ anklet. Why the hell was he even in this game? He'd been nothing but loyal to that wretched lizard, and what was the thanks he got? No, of course, he didn't get any. Instead, he got thrown out on his arse and placed with a she-devil, who had lured him into her wanton attacks, knowing he would be chastised for it.

"Get the fuck away from me," he hissed, levering off the ground, angrily slapping the sand and green slop from his clothes and hair.

His face was devoid of emotion as he stormed off, without giving her so much as a glance.

* * *

The language in the book was practically indecipherable. For starters, the pages were loaded with symbols and small images, not words. And secondly, it appeared they'd been purposely smudged. It was clear that someone had defaced the contents of it, for there were inky fingerprints on most of the pages. She delicately leafed through the book, her face crumpled in concentration. Occasionally, she flipped to the back page, reminding herself where she was heading, re-lighting the hope she was slowly losing. No matter how much you re-lit a candle, though, it was going to run out of wax eventually, until it was nothing more than a glistening pool of oil. That's how Bulma felt right now, no better off than she was an hour ago. Vegeta seemed to have calmed down, at least, and the distance between them wasn't as great as it usually was, though there was now a thick miasma of mutual uncertainty between them.

A feeling blossomed every time she thought back to him lying on top of her like that. She knew he had saved her to save himself, but a niggling ounce of doubt rested in the back of Bulma's mind.

No.

He was an _animal_; a _murderer._

The way he looked at her, though. She asserted that no one had ever looked at her like that before, not even Yamcha. A projected reel of images flicked through her mind of Yamcha lying on top of her, smiling, as he gently stroked her face with the back of his hand. Bulma scrunched her eyes up, batting the memory away. Every so often she would get bombarded with memories of her past life, overwhelming her with emotions she knew to be of no use to her now.

The backpack felt heavier, though it shouldn't have been.

Her leg throbbed with pain, making sure she hadn't forgotten about its presence. To stop the bleeding, she had to use a make-shift bandage, by ripping the sleeve from her Capsule Corp. hoody, tear it down the middle and tie it around her leg. So far it had done the trick, but the material had lapped up so much blood that it had formed into more of a crusty cloth under the intense heat. It itched, doing more damage than good, but she couldn't waste any more time, not when Vegeta was hovering over the brink of a mental breakdown.

Pulling away from her reverie, Bulma's eyes focused back on the faded pages, the scrawl as it were, when it was suddenly whisked out of her hands. She looked up, startled, hands still holding onto an invisible book.

Vegeta flipped it over, his face twisting with irritation. "You think reading this is of any use?" He grunted in disgust when he opened it to see nothing but alien drivel on every single page.

"I don't know. What harm is it causing?"

The woman's motives were inconceivable. So what if she was presumably intelligent; she didn't have to pick up mindless crap like this, and expect it to come in handy. How did she even get hold of it?

"If it doesn't progress us further in this game, then it is not needed," he said teetering on the idea of whether to destroy it.

"Vegeta, give it back. It might be useful, but I don't know that yet," she said, her eye twitching with agitation that she so clearly wanted to release upon him.

"This," he sneered, opening it and pointing to print. "It's bullshit." He threw it on the floor, and turned to walk away when her whiny voice stopped him.

"You asshole. What is your problem?" she said, bending down to pick it back up. What was the point in that? Why couldn't he have let her be?

When she regained her stature, Vegeta was in her face, dark fires burning in his eyes.

"You're my problem. You better hope we find this dragon ball, before I get bored of this game and want to play another," he snarled, his eyes trailing down the length of her body.

Bulma gulped, but was torn away from his threatening advancements, when behind him she saw a glimpse of the horizon. Excitement knocked away the dread, and Vegeta saw an immediate change in her posture, turning round to see what had got her so riled up.

Deep in the distance, the ocean sparkled, light bouncing from the sun, hitting Bulma's iris. Had she got it right? Was the image in the book a mere walk away? She didn't know, but had to find out. A pang of guilt tingled in her heart, knowing she'd—in a sense—carried Vegeta along, leading him astray. Whatever, though. He deserved it after the way he'd treated her lately.

He looked back at her accusingly, an eyebrow arching, but his frown softening.

They locked eyes, and the silence taunted the both of them for a short while.

"It's beyond those sand dunes," Bulma uttered, holding the book protectively to her chest.


	9. Chapter 9 - Day Three

A/N - Random Disclaimer ... For my own conscience. This chapter contains explicit language and maybe some scenes people of the younger generation might find offensive. That is why it is rated M :)

Thank you to Adli for being my beta!

Chapter Nine - Day Three

The Placebo Effect 

It should have been a place that breathed tranquillity. It should have screamed serenity; a place to look upon to calm your mind when your soul rattled out of control. It was none of those things. The lonely shoreline, along with the blistering heat of the relentless sun, was as troubled as she was. Every wave that lapped silently against the sand drew back as if in fear, snatching slivers of land as it retreated. It was the loneliest place on the planet, nothing like the beaches back home. No matter how quiet or desolate _they_ were, they had always been a sanctuary. When her work load spiralled out of control, or when Yamcha became suffocating, calling and calling, she had always fled to the distant shore bordering North City. People kept to themselves around there; they didn't think to accost her, asking her for photos, looking for loop holes in her latest experiment. She was alone to be alone back then. Now it couldn't have felt any worse. It was chewing at her, brewing into her skull. It was too much.

She squeezed her eyes tight and pushed the heels of her hands into their sockets, rubbing hard, so that when she opened them again, the world would be fuzzy and iridescent, drenched in odd, oily shapes. It worked for a few seconds. But a few seconds was never enough.

The memories disappeared, replaced by the bulky, highly pissed off figure of her team mate.

Her partner.

_Vegeta_.

His face was pinched with disgust as he narrowed his eyes. She wondered if his animosity towards her was fuelled by how disgusting she must have looked. Once again, her hair was a matted mess, and she dreaded to think that if she ever got the chance to brush it again, how much it would hurt. Her skin was slimy with grease, and burnt from over exposure. It only took a little exposure to UV rays to burn Bulma, and what with being out in it constantly without a scrap of sun cream, well, it was only daring for trouble. Every movement made her wince, the sores on her arms and legs chaffing underneath her clothes. The thought of carrying on swelled and itched as much as her burns.

But within the depths of this sordid game, she had found her prerogative. It had come to her in a dream, granted. Nevertheless, it was there. Nothing was ever set in stone. And it gave her hope. A certain feeling that meant life could go on. It would never be the same, but it could move forward. The only question that sat in her lap was could _she _go on?

"Where now?" he said, casting a vacant glance over the horizon.

What was he thinking? He wasn't entirely focused on the game, either. There was something else there, nestling in that mind of his. But what? Again, she took out the radar, and fooled him into thinking that it was another twenty miles or so, which would take them at least another five hours to walk. He huffed and stomped ahead, while she did her best to bite her tongue and follow.

The shoreline seemed endless. Water, sand, water, sand. But when the land adjacent to the sea began to transform, Bulma felt a lump of anticipation sticking in her throat. Her heart beat faster, the hairs on her arms pulled at the root, her empty stomach gargled with the need to churn. The landscape morphed with every step further, as did the temperature. It was no longer unbearably hot. It was still boiling, but it was relatively comfortable, like basking in the Spanish sun. Beside them, where the naked sand dunes rested, was now thick and flourished with weeds and plants of exotic colours. The weeds clawed out of rock faces, growing towards the sun, trying to escape this world as much as she was. Soft sand was bedded with pebbles and huge rocks, which she was now lumbering over. Vegeta handled it with ease and virility, compared to her lousy attempt, but she still managed without damage. For a moment she stopped to stare in awe as he cleared rocks with a single step, jumping from one to the other as if they were stepping stones. The fluidity in his movements amazed her. No wonder he was so confident all the time. He had a right reason to be. She wondered—pulling herself up from a wobbling, jagged-edged rock—if his body moved that well in bed—if every movement was meticulous, intricate and completely satisfying. Every step had to be perfectly carried out, as if it were his last. Would it be the same if she were to lie beneath him? Her gut tightened, and she curled her fingers around the backpack straps, rubbing the coarse material with her thumbs to sooth her lewd thoughts.

There were more important things to worry about than sleeping with a Saiyan. She didn't even know where the thought had come from. Maybe it was when he was lying on top of her, looking at her with eyes that bled lust-

Bulma cursed herself, continuing her journey before Vegeta realised she was slacking.

Ten miles later, it felt like her heart was climbing its way out of her throat. They had reached a cove. No, they had reached _the _cove. They had to climb down to reach ground level, and all the way down, Bulma couldn't take her eyes off the one thing that called to her. The cave. Now that it was here, shouting out in all its realistic glory, she didn't want to go in there. It wasn't as inviting as it had looked in the printed picture. The colours were too solid. The rocks were too dark, the sand too bright and almost gleaming. But it was there. Just like she thought it was; it was just way too weird to justify.

No matter how much her conscience screamed at her to turn around, her body continued to walk towards it, following Vegeta blindly into the darkness. She gulped, as the cave swallowed them both, drinking all the light and Bulma's calm façade. She was dripping in fear now, and by the scalding look in Vegeta's eyes when he turned, it was patently clear that he could see it too. Even if she was blushing, he wouldn't have been able to tell. She was so burnt it looked like she'd gone madly overboard with cheek tint, and smeared it all over her face. Covered by the veil of darkness, though, she didn't feel as insecure under his scrutiny.

The cave reeked of mould, like a towel that had been left for weeks on end, only to ferment and spawn fungi. The walls were petrified, slicked with limestone and bits of coral. Tremulously, she waded through the couple-inches-deep of water, hoping to Kami that another creature wasn't lurking in the shadows, ready to attack. She'd been attacked enough in this game already. And now that she'd lost her only form of defence, it would be futile to try and fight back. Plus, she didn't want to have to coax Vegeta out of his hard shell. The more she wound up in trouble, the more he—reluctantly—had to get his hands dirty. She wasn't looking for that. In fact, it made her feel sick that she couldn't defend herself. Determination struck her hard, and she vowed that Vegeta wouldn't have to help her ever again, because she had everything under control. Didn't she?

The perimeter of the cave was in sight, and Vegeta paused, the muscles in his back tightening as his shoulders grew closer together. Silence installed itself between them. Odd drops of water from the ceiling sent a lonely echo, making the quietness eerie. Any saliva Bulma had left in her mouth had evaporated, like she'd just eaten a handful of hot sand. She treaded further, closer to Vegeta.

Panic struck her hard, as she saw that there was absolutely nothing in here. Nothing. It was only one hundred meters in depth and width—just solid stone with a pool of calve-high salt water. They were the only ones in there. Not even a mutant to tide Vegeta over.

"Well," he remarked, arching his head so he could see her in his peripheral. "Where is it? Because I don't see it. Do you?"

Bulma sloshed about in the water, making sure to stray from him a bit. "I-but-I don't know."

Vegeta lashed out and kicked the water, sending a wave crashing into the wall. Bulma winced, awaiting the tirade of abuse.

"If the damn radar said it was here, then it is here. Unless that useless piece of shit isn't functioning anymore." He crossed his arms, faced her, his burst of anger subsided.

Hurt and insulted, she frowned gravely. "The radar is working fine, Vegeta." She noticed a peculiar reaction flicker across his features every time she said his name. "I don't know where the dragon ball is. It's probably under the water, or a rock, or something. I don't know." She waved nonchalantly, as if they were looking for a missing TV remote, not the only thing that was going to grant them freedom. All the while Bulma had to fight against her own dread and fear. The fear of being torn apart by Vegeta, because clearly, his rage was beginning to get the better of him.

_Not so confident now, are you?_

Pushing back the logical voice in her head, she waded further into a pool of water, allowing it to creep up the length of her body, until she was waist deep. Vegeta was busy lifting mammoth-sized rocks up, checking underneath them, then throwing them back down with so much force she could feel the ground shudder. Splints of coral and rocks ricocheted around the cave.

Bulma hissed as the cold water made its way up to her chest, and she tugged the backpack beneath her, as she tried to bob. The water's depth grew and grew, and she had to grab a crevice in the wall to stop from sinking. It melted through her clothes, the soft waves caressing her damaged skin. The salt licked at her wounds, making her wince. It would be the only bare-basic treatment she was going to receive, so she tolerated it. She remained still, watching Vegeta boil over in anger as he flipped the last available rock there was. When he dropped it, she turned away, looking at the glossy stone wall as if it held the answers. Absentmindedly, her hand traced the grooves in the rocks, reaching underneath the surface.  
She stilled, moved her hand over a large, smoothed dip in the stone, just above the surface.

The dip looked man made, purposely carved, like an archway. Grappling her way in front of it, she then swung her legs into the archway, almost being swallowed by more depth of water. It was a passage way. There was no telling how far it reached, but it definitely was. Again, the voice in the back of her mind told her that she was doing the right thing. Holding her breath, she plunged her head under water, and opened her eyes. It was gloomy and pitch-dark, injecting trepidation in her bones, but also beckoning her to go in. So far in this game she had done nothing other than walk into the darkness, whether it was literal or metaphorical. What was the harm in doing it again? With a new found purpose, Bulma emerged from the water, gasping, with a sheet of aqua hair plastered to her face.

"Vegeta, come and take a look at this. I think it's in here," she said, clambering to keep her head above water.

Within a heartbeat, he was sloshing through the water and at her side, seemingly unaffected by the plummeting temperature of the cool liquid. With a wet palm, she slicked back her sopping hair, and watched eagerly as he investigated the newly found passage way, his face fixed with concentration.

He went under, and she looked at the rippling surface, the tiny bubbles popping without a sound. A split second later, a flash of light was emitted, transforming the dark cave into a star-lit haven, before it disappeared without a trace. Vegeta returned, throwing his head back, and wiping the cascading sea water from his eyes. The usually erect points of his black hair had wilted, leaving a few stray strands pasted to his forehead.

She watched the range of subtle emotions brush across his face. She'd learnt to read them. He was vaguely amused by something, but also abashed—maybe because he hadn't thought to look there himself, instead of demolishing every rock in the cave.

Pride blossomed in her chest. Once again she had proved herself useful, without needing his help. She was a genius, after all. It wasn't hard. The smug grin melted from her face when his eyes shifted to meet hers. The droplets of water, previously patting lightly throughout the cave, sounded like trash can lids being clashed together right next to Bulma's ears. Suddenly, she felt paranoid of her appearance, realising that her hair was saturated, her skin was blistering, and her eyes had probably adopted two, large grey hammocks underneath them.

She swallowed hard before speaking. "Well? What do you—what do you think?"

His eyes narrowed, but never moved from hers. "It's a passage way." He shrugged, the water sliding off his broad shoulders, as he bobbed effortlessly.

_Should I look away?_

"Can you tell how far it is?"

He shook his head.

She sighed. "I can't hold my breath for too long. Forty seconds, tops," she shrugged, finally yielding from his steady gaze to stare at the rippling surface.

"Then you better swim quickly."

Bulma lifted her head, cocking an eyebrow. Something stood out in his tone. It wasn't as bitter and sour as before. Was there a hint of concern in there?

Bulma nodded. She had to try. It was she who had gotten herself into this mess, so she had to carry on through, no matter what obstacles stood in her way. Also, Vegeta would kill her otherwise. There was no doubt that he was going to be pissed off when he found out the truth. She just hoped that whatever was on the other side of that passage way would ebb his anger enough for her to explain.

"Give me that," he said, nodding to the backpack, which was dragging Bulma further down, until she had to lift her chin away from the licking surface.

Without hesitation, she stripped it from her arms, feeling a slight sense of bereft. That backpack had barely left her since they had started this game. It was almost a part of her. But, Vegeta was stronger and able to take the pressure and gravitational pull from it under water. She, on the other hand, would have been hopeless.

He slung it over both shoulders, and took a gulp of air, before submerging into the darkness. Bulma didn't have time to think. If she lost track of Vegeta, she would surely die, even if it was from drowning. A huge lung-full of air, and she pushed herself below. The water weaved through all her senses, as thousands of bubbles danced in her line of vision, obscuring her view. When they cleared, she saw it. _Him_. He was surrounded by an electric hue of blue energy, lighting up the severely narrow passage way, guiding her. Whether it was intentional or not, she didn't know. But like prey following the predatory glow of an Anglerfish, she thrust herself through the water towards him, enraptured by his magnificent display, as he was literally the light at the end of the tunnel.

The seconds passed and she was keeping a steady pace, taking to kicking her legs, making her as streamlined as possible. A few more seconds and her future was looking bleak, watching Vegeta's solid frame valiantly travelling through the tunnel without indication of breaching the surface any time soon. Her legs kicked a little too frantically as the pressure started beating in her rib cage, her lungs pleading for oxygen. She kicked again, and felt something sharp snag on her jeans, ceasing her advancements. Her eyes widened as she tried to pull free from it, but she was gripped. The beating in her chest progressed into violent pounding, and she opened her mouth to scream, waving her arms, trying to reach for the one person who could save her. Salt water consumed the space in her lungs, and she convulsed, fruitlessly shaking the entrapped material. The Anglerfish light swam further away, allowing the darkness and solitude to bleed through the growing gap between them. Empty screams failed, as the water streamed into each and every alveolus in her lungs, filtering and wiping the oxygen clean.

Once more her fingers grasped for Vegeta, before she was taken into the deep, dark abyss of unconsciousness.

* * *

Zarbon mindlessly picked at a silver scale that had magically appeared on his arm. It was a blemish, only to appear when he was stressed—the ugly reality of his physical appearance trying to burst through the beautiful seams. Frieza had yet to return, and he was left watching over his puppets. Granted, he had had his fun with Vegeta earlier on. That did amuse him somewhat. The look on Vegeta's face was priceless. So much lust in those brooding eyes of his. But, honestly, what did he expect?

It was not within regulations to form a genuine alliance, so for him to display any sort of connection with the Earthling was deemed as abhorrent behaviour. After that little incident, Zarbon's time watching over the precious Saiyan had grown mundane and monotonous. It had been several hours and they had done very little to interest the green- haired warrior. Not enough to punish them for, anyway. Zarbon was under strict rules with how to contend with Vegeta and the Earthling. He was not to harm them. But a little electric shock didn't hurt, did it?

His glassy eyes wandered across the holographic sphere of planet zero-one-six-zero, and stopped when they reached another team. Now that was more interesting. At least this team put up a little fight with each other. It appeared that Earthling number two was having an awfully difficult time with her ruthless Saiyan.

* * *

"Stupid woman. Almost got us both fucking killed …"

The platitudinous verbal onslaught of a familiar voice dragged her out of the darkness, heaving her forward and onto her side so that she could cough up a lungful of stinging salt water. Bracing her hands on the solid ground, she choked until her throat grew hoarse, and she was left panting, hunching and shuddering her shoulders. The t-shirt she wore was stuck to her like a second skin, freezing her right to the core. And for the first time in a while she wanted to cry. Being brought back from the depths so many times in a few days was beginning to get tiresome. A part of her just wanted it to end all together. She didn't want to see the face of a displeased Saiyan anymore, nor did she want to worry about how he would react. Sick and tired, and ready for death.

Shivering, she peeled her eyes away from the floor to gather her surroundings. Vegeta was standing directly in front of her, glowering down at her, but he didn't say anything. She didn't know which was worse. Yet again, Vegeta had come to her rescue, because he _had_ to. The thought was so disconcerting—him seeing her floating lifelessly, and having to turn back to go after her.

With one slick movement, he wrapped a strong arm around her waist and pulled her to her feet, setting her down promptly. Bulma pulled at the fabric of her t-shirt, her face suddenly glowing red when she saw that the sopping material had become almost transparent. Wide eyed, she looked to Vegeta, who was thankfully staring at something behind her, his face fixed with a deep frown.

They were in another cave with a huge ceiling. Presumably, the tiny pool of water behind Vegeta was where they had emerged, leading back through the tunnel and to the first cave. The burning need to find out how long the tunnel actually was, was tickling at the back of her sore throat. Not that it would do much good knowing, but she always liked to be aware of everything. One thing that struck Bulma about this cave was the light. There was an orange glow, bouncing off every wall. She followed it round and nearly choked at what she saw.

The supressed need to cry was rendering, and Bulma had to swallow the dry lump in her throat to stop it. Boiling over in a mixture of confusion and happiness, she dragged a shaking hand through her wet, knotted hair, ragging through the tangles no matter how much discomfort it brought.

"What is this?" Vegeta demanded, standing beside her.

Bulma blinked, afraid that the image was merely a mirage, a figment of her own imagination. "It's a capsule home," she mumbled, staring at the small, domed building, which resided against the back wall of the glowing cave. The two bay windows either side of the house had a row of candles, emitting the only light. The house looked a bit dilapidated, with green sludge covering the white exterior, growing along the surface and spreading across the ground, like a sheet of carpet. It looked like it had been there for years, but the Capsule Corp logo stood out beneath the sea weed. It was there in black and white. _Capsule Corp_. Her father's creation.

On this planet?

This is what she had come to find. It was destiny.

Without thinking, she strode on, ahead of Vegeta this time, pushed the creaking front door open and walked into the flickering hallway of a first generation capsule home. Even the walls had some mould crawling up them, covering the standard pale-blue wallpaper. The whole place was bare of anything other than neglect. There were plant pots smashed and left on the floor, empty bottles and cans. She started when Vegeta kicked a bottle aside, unaware that he was so close behind her. Her hands ran along the walls, scraping the dirt under her nails. The memory of her father constructing a model just like this, when she was just ten years old, bloomed into her mind. He had showed her the plans, and shared with her all the magic behind it—only their secret to keep. Tears gathered along her waterlines. She mopped them away quickly, swabbing them with her palm.

Something about this place, despite its homely appearance, seemed quaint and peaceful. It was a distorted image of a house back home.

A dark figure emerged from the living room, sending her rigid.

"You made it, Bulma Briefs," he said, flashing the familiar sharp, black fangs which she had seen vividly in her dream.

Nonplussed, she took a step back, treading on a bottle and nearly tumbling backwards on her ass.

"What is this?" Vegeta spat, bracing a large palm on the small of her back to stop her falling, only to barge past a second later.

Bulma placed a cold hand to her burning forehead. "You _knew_." She locked eyes with Mr Mystery, searching for unspoken answers. "How did you know I'd find you?"

"Because you're pure," he said, nodding, a cheerful smile painting his white lips.

"What the fuck is going on?" Vegeta shouted, his body shaking with rage as he picked up a fighter's stance before the creature.

"Tame this warrior," Mr Mystery spat, his face suddenly contorted with churning hostility.

Bulma shook her head, casting away all the doubt and fear which resided there. Whatever was happening was happening. No matter how delusional it may have seemed, she had to get a grip and wade her way through this.

"He's got a point, though. What the hell _is_ going on?" She stood closer to Vegeta, for reasons she didn't quite understand. She wasn't afraid of Mr Mystery, not at all. It was the whole scenario that set her on edge—the house, the cave, the underwater tunnel. None of it clicked together.

The blue miasma of Vegeta's energy rose in the air, consuming the outline of his muscled frame. "If that dragon ball isn't here—"

Mr Mystery stepped out of the shadows, revealing himself to them with fearless prowess. Bulma gasped. He looked different. Without the cloak, he looked terrifying, and _huge_. The soft candle light illuminated his chalky skin, highlighting his bulky, towering body. His ears were so sharp and pointed that it looked like they could pierce skin with ease. He was clad in a purple, sleeveless training outfit, which resembled some of the clothing she had seen Goku wear. Around his waist was a thick band of blue silk.

"You don't need to worry, here, Saiyan. Your precious Lord Frieza cannot keep track of you this far beneath the surface. The anklet is useless," he said, waving his hand dismissively.

The blue energy dissipated and Vegeta's tensed shoulder slumped. He looked to Bulma for answers, but she had none. She was as bewildered as he.

"The anklet doesn't work?" she said, frowning.

"No, it will still carry out its purpose when the time is right, but the signal is blocked," Mr Mystery said.

Vegeta roughly dragged his fingers through his hair, staring at the ground. "Frieza will be alerted immediately."

Mr Mystery clucked his tongue. "There are more contenders in this game. I'd give it several hours before he notices your disappearance."

The confidence in his voice made Bulma believe his words to be true. They had to be, because everything this guy had said to her so far had been legitimate. She put her hand up, the inquisitive scientist within making a short-lived appearance. "Hold on—who are you? How do you know all of this?"

He smiled, shook his head. "Clearly the two of you are in dire need of rest. Before I give you news, take an hour or two to calm your minds. Sleep if you must," he said, gesturing to the bedroom to the left of him. "Miss Briefs, I have some errands to run. I'll be back shortly." And he dematerialised before she could demur.

The house grew deadly silent. Only the soft inhales and exhales of Bulma could be heard. She looked to Vegeta, who was rigid with burning rage, his arms pinned to his sides, fists clenched, blanching the skin on his knuckles.

"The bedroom is there?" he said, pointing to the room down the corridor, trying not to look at her, instead working on concealing the desire to wring her neck.

"I … ah … Yeah, I think so," Bulma said, taken aback.

He nodded and proceeded to stomp into the room, creating as much destruction as a tornado, knocking empty picture frames and ornaments from their shelves, and slamming the door shut behind him.

Bulma flinched as the noise resounded through the house, rattling the loose fixtures in the ceiling. The sudden cold and loneliness enveloped her damp body. She didn't move from the hallway.

Vegeta had a right to be angry, true. In fact, he had a right to punish or torment her. But the fact that he hadn't done anything at all was more unsettling. It was as if she was pushing him closer and closer to the edge of his own restraint. Each nudge was building within him, and it was only a matter of time before he lashed out. She told herself over and over that if it wasn't for the anklet, she would have died a long time ago—by his hands.

* * *

This wasn't supposed to happen. _None_ of this was supposed to happen. The plan was there, plastered on the inside of his brain and he took note of it, because he had to. So, then, why had he fallen off course to such a dramatic degree? And how did he wind up sitting on an ice cold, cover-less bed, and left to stare listlessly at the ceiling, only to remind himself of his failings? Oh, but he knew why. Of course he did. He just didn't want to admit it.

_The Woman_.

Vegeta groaned and rolled onto his side, using his forearm as a pillow, facing away from the door. For the last twenty minutes he had been tracking that woman's life force as she wandered around the house, rummaging through things, with her ki flickering excitedly. She was stomping around like she owned the fucking place. Things were _clicking_ and _clacking _constantly, deterring any notion of sleep he got. He should've killed her. And no matter how many times he reminded himself that that was not an option, her pollutive existence slowly ate away at his solid composure. He was cracking. When he found out about their little digression, he was insanely close to ripping her throat open. He had to get away from her. It was just as well she was making herself busy and keeping out of reach. It was finally giving him a moment by himself. But he wasn't by himself, at all. Even when she wasn't in his sight, she burrowed away in his mind like a petrified rat in a barrel. And he hated it. But it didn't matter. He wouldn't let it matter, because once this game was over, he would make damn sure that her life would be over as well. That was a plan he definitely would stick to.

This dilapidated dump was freezing. He'd spent countless nights sleeping in cells and dank dungeons on Frieza's ship, though they weren't half as neglected as this shit hole. This was an entirely different type of cold, couple with the sense of failure. Much worse. He fidgeted, brushing his cheek against his smooth arms to get into a comfortable position. The door handle rattled, and instantly, the irritation nibbled away at his tired brain.

Vegeta remained still, hoping that she was as smart as she said she was, meaning she'd know to fuck off.

"Vegeta?" a soft, muffled voice said from behind the door.

He ignored it, shifting on the bed, making the rusty springs in the mattress moan in protest.

Regardless of knowing what was best, the door, scraping across the worn carpet, opened, and the soft sound of bootless feet padded into the room.

"Get out," he grumbled testily.

The sweet smell of fresh lavender whirled around the room and his senses, filling and clouding them over. The smell of _her_ sidled to towards him, also. He glared at the flickering candle on the windowsill. The flame was about to die, along with his restraint towards this woman.

"I found some food. Here," she said, and there was a weight of something being placed on the bed next to him, though it was too heavy to be just a bowl of food.

Despite being overwhelmed with rage, Vegeta had to think logically enough to get the facts straight. So far, he'd been dragged around for miles, thinking he was searching for their main objective; the one thing that was going to save their lives. Well, his life. Obviously when he had come to terms with the fact that they were now going to be a day behind, he needed some justification. What, in her right mind, made her think she could get away with something like that? And now she had the audacity to approach him without of trace of fear flowing through those precious veins of hers.

"You lied," he stated bluntly, unsure how he felt about displaying his disappointment in her. In _himself_.

She sighed. The sound was so soft and beautiful, he wished to hear it again, but while she was underneath him, panting and screaming his name.

"Look, I had to," she uttered, her tone slathered in thick, pasty guilt.

"Whatever. Now get out." The skin around his knuckles grew tight. He'd been absentmindedly clenching them the moment she stepped in the room.

"Ok, but you need to eat, Vegeta. It's macaroni cheese. There was an emergency supply of tinned foods in a cupboard. It's cold, and a little out of date but … yeah," her voice trailed off, and he knew she was rambling her way out of the emotion he despised the most.

He roused himself up on his elbows suddenly, and stared at her intently. Her azure eyes widened, but she didn't move, rather—whether this was conscious or not—she leaned in, drawn in by a dangerous, magnetic force. It was subtle, but he saw it. The light from the candle left a yellow glaze in her blue pools, and for a moment he forgot how to talk; his throat desert-dry.

"How did you know to come here? How is that possible?" he said gruffly.

As soon as her eyes dropped to the bowl in her hands, he felt a sense of bereavement come over him—their connection shattered instantly.

Bulma shrugged, her thin, malnourished frame shaking in the cold. "I—I don't know. I just—you have to believe me." Her eyes met his again, lingering, connecting to his mind, and trying to read into the indifference on his face.

Back to default, Vegeta frowned. "I don't." And his mouth set into a grim line of distaste.

It was true. How was he supposed to believe or trust someone who had led him astray over eight hundred miles? In his whole thirty-whatever years of living, Vegeta didn't think he had ever trusted a single living soul. Not one. His father was a joke; Raditz was a crook who wouldn't stop at the chance to stab him in the back. And Nappa? Well, that one went without saying. Trust was such a pointless tool. The day you put your trust in anyone, was the day you lost your mind. Vegeta threw himself down on the mattress, placing his arms behind his head, watching the throng of dancing shadows on the ceiling that were shaping around the lamp shade.

"I don't expect you to. But I don't know why you have to be against me all the time." She sighed again, and something fluttered in his stomach, a yearning to grab onto that sound and wring its neck until he grew bored of it. Yet, it was highly unlikely that he would ever grow tired of that euphoric utterance.

"Are you gonna eat this or not?"

He waited for a moment, the empty hollow of his stomach gripping with pain. "Yes."

Giving in, he sat up again, dragged the bowl over, and dug his hands into the cold, sloppy food, scooping it up. Pieces of pasta spilled over his fingertips and back into the bowl.

"You're royalty," Bulma mused out loud, trying her best not to grimace at his table manners.

The sweet flavours exploded on his tongue. He'd never tasted something as rich and delicious as this before. Again, he scooped another handful, cramming it into his mouth, dissatisfied with the tiny portion she had given him.

"Hn?" he grunted, his attention focused solely on the food.

"I heard you say it. In the gorge—"

The bowl was slammed down on the bed, and Vegeta wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. A new sense of energy cascaded down his throat and into his stomach, momentarily loosening the steel grip of hunger.

"That's right," he said proudly, looking her straight in the eye.

She shifted uncomfortably, crossing her arms over her chest in a protective sort of way. The dumb woman had only a flimsy t-shirt on, and it looked wetter than his own garments.

There was no way he was going to discuss his past with her. Again, that was not part of the plan. Hell, she wasn't even supposed to know his name. That was bad enough. Day by day she was beginning to remember things. It was only a matter of time.

He fixed his impenetrable gaze on the decrepit wall opposite. It looked like the place was going to collapse any minute, as there were holes in the eroding plaster, being eaten by the sodium in the air.

After a minute of heavy silence, he sighed, knowing she would not leave him until he answered. The answer would have to be limited, then—limited enough that she couldn't track back from it.

"I come from Vegeta-sei. My father was King, and my mother was Queen." He shrugged nonchalantly. Talking about home wasn't his favourite thing to do. It only brought up more soil and shit.

"Vegeta, why are you part of this game?" she said, her voice wavering, perhaps because she was afraid of the answer.

He thought about it for a moment, even though the answer was simple, then said, "Because I belong here," and let the palpable statement hang in the air.

It was true. He did belong here. She, on the other hand, did not.

Bulma picked the empty bowl off the bed and plonked it in her lap. "No one belongs in this mess."

He regarded her softly for a moment. Such an innocent desert flower, she was. Being stomped on by Frieza, and squashed. Having all her morals wiped clean the moment she took a rock to that human's head.

She leaned towards him, the welcoming warmth of her body teasing his own. "What could you have done that was so bad?"

He found himself mirroring her actions. "Killed millions—maybe billions, hearing their useless pleas for help and still crushing them into the dirt …" The heat blazed within him as he leaned closer to whisper, "And loving every minute of it."

She gasped, yet to move away from him—the rapid beating of the pulse in her neck like music to his ears.

"Spare me the questions. Knowing this kind of information isn't going to save you, so why bother?" He slumped down against the headboard, peeling his eyes away from hers with feigned disinterest; for fear that he might become enraptured by her beauty, and act on impulse.

"I want to know," she whispered, sending that flutter back into his stomach.

Behind her words, there was need for something else. The tone was too deep and sultry. The sudden throbbing in his loins made him uncomfortable, pressing into the tight material of his garments, begging to be freed and subdued by the warmth of her centre. His brow furrowed.

She needed to leave.

He shot her a hateful look, but she was too busy looking at the wall, her eyes frosted over, deep in thought.

"It's freezing," she said suddenly, shivering and gripping onto her shoulders.

Vegeta supressed the urge to roll his eyes, and instead rolled onto his side. "Shut up whining for once."

"Well, it is!"

He flinched. The high pitched sound was unbearable. "Deal with it," he said behind gritted teeth.

* * *

The corners of her eyes felt like they had a polythene cutter wedged underneath them. Every time she blinked, there was a sharp pinch. She was tired; tired of thinking about being tired, tired of walking endlessly through miles of desolate landscape, tired of feeling useless. It hadn't slipped her mind that Vegeta had saved her, _twice_. And, yes, she knew that he had no choice, but it still counted, right? She frowned, her body stilling from the racks of shivering, focusing on the penetrating cold, rather than letting it consume her. It was her back that was suffering the worst. If she didn't do something she'd have pneumonia in no time. Being exposed to such a range of explosive temperatures was corrupting her body's natural balance. The skin on her face was burnt and peeling off, like a snake shedding its skin, whereas now she was frozen to the core, her arms and legs prickled with goose-bumps.

She glanced over her shoulder at Vegeta, his solid, muscled back uncomfortably stock-still, the beautifully bronzed skin between the nape of his neck and the hem of his clothing. It didn't even look like he was breathing. She wondered whether he was as cold on the outside as he was on the inside. The urge to reach out and feel his skin with the tips of her weather-damaged fingers was making her subconsciously pull towards him. But the cold snapped at her when she reached out, the distance between them too great to even contemplate leaving the warmth of her own grasp.

The thought of Yamcha popped into her mind. The memory squeezed acidic droplets into the tender wound of her present. She had loved Yamcha. After thinking about it, she had finally come to that conclusion. To what extent, she didn't know. He was there for her, always wanting the best, buying her the most extravagant possessions, just to make her smile. But he bought those things, because he knew she was drifting off course, away from the blissful contentment of their lengthy relationship.

When he had asked her to marry him, she had said no.

Bulma pressed the heels of her hands into her eye sockets again, rubbing in a circular motion, willing away the guilt that threatened to tear her to pieces. What did it matter, anyway? It wasn't like she was ever going to see Yamcha again, was it? She sighed, wrapping hands around the back of her neck, interlocking her fingers, her elbows pointing outwards, and lifting her head to gaze at the candle light wavering on the ceiling.

She had said no, because she got a glimpse into the future, and didn't see him in it. It wasn't that she didn't love him. The emotion wouldn't stretch far enough, and it tortured her every day.

Feeling the warmth of another person's skin on _her_ skin almost seemed unimaginable. The slow, heavy breathing, the steady beat of someone's heart under her palm. There was seldom ever anything sexual about it, other than it brought comfort and security. The last time she had felt like that was too long ago, even when she was lying with Yamcha, with his arms wrapped around her like he wouldn't let her go even if the world stopped turning. But for her, it did. Her world—metaphorically—had been crushed and blended into a moist mush of congealing memories.

Vegeta was still frozen solid, obviously unopposed to her being in the same room as him, which was bewildering considering she had fucked him over about the dragon ball. He needn't worry, though, because they had five, tucked in a backpack, hidden in the next room. No one was going to find this capsule home and steal them, and there were three days to go. Bulma's stomach flipped when she realised that her potential life expectancy was a mere three days away. In three days, if they didn't gather all seven dragon balls, they were going to die.

Solemnly, her eyes traced the outline of her partner's body, from the metal tips of his boots, to the peak of his raven hair. She didn't want to feel alone. She didn't want to die alone.

With bated breath, she crawled over to him, and sunk down behind him, her face inches from the back of his neck. The heat from his body was consuming. She needed to touch him. Softly, she let her hand rest on the bare skin of his shoulder, the warmth connecting with her palm, sending jolts of unexpected desire through her veins. The muscles in his back flexed, and then his entire body loosened, like he had just woken up from a hibernated state.

"Vegeta," she whispered, her breath fluttering the wisps of hair at the nape of his neck.

The silence indulged itself between them, making Bulma recalculate her actions.

She inhaled, hoping to gain some courage and composure. "Vegeta, can you just … hold me."  
The moisture in her mouth had been consumed along with her rational, focused behaviour. "Just for a little while," she elaborated, pressing her fingers gently into his bicep.

Rejection was never something Bulma had had to face in her previous life, but she knew that if it was going to be thrown at her by anyone, it would be Vegeta. This was the man she had known for less than five minutes, but felt the strongest connection she had ever encountered with anyone else. The anklets had bound them, unwillingly, crashing them together, and tying their lives with the tightest, silk knot. But there was more. Granted, it had only been three and a half days, but something about Vegeta lured Bulma in, eyes wide and mind in the clouds.

Admitting defeat, Bulma rolled onto her other side, pressing her back against his. The bumps of his spinal cord pressed into the dwindling flesh on her back, giving her the smallest bit of warmth. Her cheeks prickled with the heat of embarrassment, and she tried to convince herself that Vegeta had been asleep and not heard her stupid cry for affection. Again, she held her body tight, thinking about palm trees, and coconut cocktails, and being able to revel unashamedly in the glorious sunlight without being singed like a chicken steak on a barbecue.

A shifting in the mattress made her balance unsteady, nudging her backwards, and before she could regain it, the warm breath of Vegeta rolled against her neck and off her shoulders. It was as inviting as a warm current in an icy sea. At first she assumed her body was so deprived of warmth that it had created a pseudo effect; a need so deep that it could be forged.

She daren't move. If she moved in the slightest, showcasing how much she wanted this, Vegeta might run. It was one step at a time with him, leaving her always conscious of being bitten on the nose. In the space of a couple unbearably stretched seconds, Vegeta's armour-less chest moulded to her back; the action was full of intent, and deeper meaning, one which she tried to read carefully.

What was in this for him?

The way his hand drifted along the curve of her waist, bunching up the soggy material of her t-shirt, his dry fingertips barely grazing her skin, it said so many things to her. His touch was gentle, controlled, and judging by the dramatically slow pace, she sensed that he was waiting for her to react, but she could barely move. Shock had rendered her immobile, when all she wanted to do was melt under his touch, though the pulsing in her core said otherwise. It beat, manipulating her body temperature, sending it soaring. Bulma knew, at that moment, if she turned her head, only slightly, Vegeta would kiss her, and possibly much more. And she wanted that.

Playing with a blue flame was extremely dangerous, it being the most vicious of them all, and she had it wrapped around her, keeping her warm. Without shamefully lying to herself, Bulma concluded that being close to Vegeta felt exciting, sparking a new sense of danger and adventure. Although she was partly cautious, her body began to sink into his.

But he was a killer, and according to Mr Mystery, she was pure for the time being. Despite all that, she was gasping for rest—a single moment of peace.

The confidence within her spiked impulsively, and urged her to take Vegeta's warm, dark hands in her deathly cold, pale ones, and web their fingers together, like a mismatched fence panel. She marvelled at the contrast in colour and size, also noticing how clean his hands were compared to hers. Thick layers of black dirt were engraved under each of her nails, accompanied by painful wit-lows and chalky, chapped skin. Her mind swelled with images of what could be, as she directed his arm around her waist, where he then pulled her into his chest, tight and protectively—a shield against the darkness.

For the first time in a long time—way before she could remember—Bulma contentedly closed her eyes, being overwhelmed with the knowledge that she might actually gain some peace. Yet, an emotion had been stirred, and she had to fight against it. It was an emotion so foreign and explosive, like nothing she had ever felt before, not even with Yamcha. It worried her. How could she possibly have feelings for someone as cold hearted and cruel as Vegeta?

With their fingers intertwined, Bulma sank deeper into Vegeta's possession. Being under the strong hold of a killer had never felt so comfortable and safe. There was more to Vegeta, though. She just knew it. Something resided in his mind other than the thirst for battle. In his eyes, she saw desperation within the darkness. A silent plea for help, but from what she didn't quite know yet. She was going to make damn sure to find out about Vegeta, reach into his past and pull out the right information to allow her to accept the new emotion brewing in her chest. Before she was to die, she would know what had happened to the Prince of Saiyans.


	10. Chapter 10 - Day Four

A/N - Thanks to Adli for being ma Beta :)

Warning - This chapter contains strong language and sexual themes. If you hate this stuff, get out, and close the door behind you ... please.  
  
Chapter Ten

Planet-Zero-One-Six-Zero

Hours could have passed and Bulma would have been none the wiser, wrapped up in a cocoon of muscular arms and radiating heat of the Saiyan Prince. There was no sleep. How could there be? Since starting this game she hadn't had a decent night of rest. She'd been too hopeful before, assuming that comfort would thus bring her slumber, but it didn't. Too much buzzed through her mind (pushing the fact of her imminent death aside), like how rhythmical Vegeta's breathing was, and how, very consciously, she was trying to match their inhales and exhales, creating a synchronised melody. The single candle on the mouldy windowsill had burned out, leaving them in the unamusable darkness. The only thing Bulma could see was her imagination wandering, luring her towards the darker crevices of her mind, the type of place were hate and guilt resided. She hated the position she had been left in. Hated it immeasurably. Even the word 'hate' didn't quite rumble in her head with the satisfactory effect. There had to be a stronger word.

For the one hundredth time, Bulma attempted to close her eyes and settle, shifting, sinking deeper into Vegeta's arms. He didn't move, thankfully. Either he was asleep, or he was deeply brooding like she was, immersed in numerous, tormenting thoughts. Everything that he did told her that he had somewhat of a conscience, tucked away beneath the steel shell of his exterior. Yes, she had witnessed him killing—murdering. The sadistic, sharp-fanged grin he wore while cracking Pui Pui's neck was too harsh an image to go back to, but he had been subjected to this just as she had, only he was a warrior. Before this game, Bulma had barely slapped another human being, let alone plunge a rock into the surprisingly tender casing of a man's skull. It wasn't a feeling she would relish. It was hideous. _She_ was hideous. But it was all thrust upon her unwillingly. And, according to Mr Mystery, she wasn't as monstrous as she had made herself out to be. Not in the slightest. Oh, no, because she was 'pure'.

She sneered, squeezing her eyes tighter, scalding herself for letting her thoughts consume again. If she didn't get any sleep, she would be even more of a liability.

A firework of purple exploded within her mind's eye. The colours illuminated the four dark corners and gathered to create a lavender silhouette, moving swiftly close by. The energy source grew and evolved to a power far greater than Vegeta's. It was overwhelming, but soothing, because she knew to whom it belonged. Instinctively, she pulled her hand, which was encased by Vegeta's bronzed fingers, up to her chest, tugging his arm too. Vegeta stirred, but it was merely a heavily relaxed exhale, as he ensconced himself further, his breath hot against her mass of tangled tresses. Her skin tingled, and the feeling zipped from head to toes and back again, sending her dizzy. She hadn't forgotten about the strange relationship they had recently unveiled, but she needed solid answers. Unfortunately, Vegeta wasn't going to be the one to give said answers, so she had to deflect to Mr Mystery, who was, right now, in the sitting room, waiting for her.

Smacked with confusion, Bulma's eyes fluttered open. How did she know he was waiting for her?

To break free of Vegeta's hold without waking him was going to be a challenge, so slowly, she slipped her fingers free from his, one by one, and shrugged herself sluggishly to sink and crawl under his arm. But, as she moved a mere inch, his grip tightened, dragging her back into him possessively. She frowned like a petulant child, and with a little more force this time, wrenched free by shoving her body forward, breaking the lock he had on her. If Mr Mystery was in the next room, waiting for her, then she had to make a move quickly before he decided to vanish to wherever the hell he kept vanishing to. As she planted her bare feet on the freezing linoleum flooring, she took a moment to really prepare what she was going to say, whether it would be explosive or composed, liberal or a vicious onslaught. After all, what she had endured so far had been a living hell, so he couldn't expect her to be delicate about anything.

Straightening her tattered t-shirt, she stood up and paced into the sitting room to the welcomed image of a pleasantly amused Mr Mystery. He was sat formally, back straight, like he had an invisible string attached to his spinal cord, keeping him upright. His hands were crossed limply in his lap, depicting the envied image of serenity. The chair he had chosen to sit on was sodden with mould and moss, but because he was on it, it looked wonderful.

She stopped in the centre of the room, suddenly transfixed by the amount of candles lined against the walls. There was no time for distractions, so she shifted her attention back to his deep, lavender eyes, and she crossed her arms, partly for warmth, but mostly for a defence.

She narrowed her eyes. "You better not try any more disappearing acts, buddy. I want some answers," she said, subtly quaking.

He smiled, and it lit up her blackening heart for a fraction of a second.

"As you wish." He nodded gracefully, completely unfazed by the seriousness of the situation.

Dumbfounded, Bulma stood there with her mouth open a couple inches, as coherent sentences failed to form in her head. How could he be so calm? Here she was, shaking like a petrified puppy, and he was sitting there _smiling_? This guy was deluded. He had to be.

The smile formed into a wide grin, a mouth consumed by several rows of obsidian teeth, tearing Bulma away from her reverie. But his grin became wane and replaced with a line of disapproval as Vegeta walked in, choosing to lean against the farthest wall. Words were certainly not needed to express how much Mr Mystery loathed Vegeta. But for what? That was just another question she needed to ask, she supposed. No doubt, even with the right answers, she would become entangled in a mass of lies, or be misled into something even more grotesque and horrific than this game. That was all part of it. Who was she to trust when her days were so irrevocably numbered?

Soon enough, after glaring at Vegeta for a couple of sour seconds, Mr Mystery regained his charm in full swing, smiling wonderfully at Bulma, like they were two long lost friends, meeting at a dinner party for the first time in years. She, on the other hand, did not reciprocate this sense of glee, as she could not for life of her muster what there was in this world to smile about anymore. And, to contain her confusion, the crease in her brow furrowed even further, undoubtedly working towards a permanent wrinkle right between the eyes.

He opened his hands and said, "Well, what would you like to know?" and then proceeded to wrap his fingers around both arms of the chair. Bulma watched as a plume of dust particles escaped the fabric of neglected furniture, weaving without purpose through the sparse candle light.

Arms akimbo, she feigned the confidence she once had. "Who are you?" And, at the same time, tried desperately not to look back at Vegeta to see what he made of it all. What did she care if he thought negatively about the whole charade?

Mr Mystery's smile flickered, like a dying bulb. Even he couldn't pretend to be cheerful anymore. It was a contagion on this planet, it seemed. Sitting back, understanding that it was finally time to bite the bullet, he sighed, and retrieved a sliver of a smile.

"I am the guardian of this planet," he stated, the solemnity in his voice thickening and dragging each word out as if they had yet to be introduced to his tongue, like he was using them for the first time.

"What?" Bulma spurted without thinking, her arms flopping to her sides like two dead fish.

He chuckled, but it was a tired, overused sort of sound. This was not the same creature from a mere few moments ago.

"How do you think the Dragon Balls exist?" The thick mound of skin, where an eyebrow should have been, raised as he watched Bulma speculatively.

She suddenly felt overcome with the itchy heat of embarrassment. Of course she should have known that. The Dragon Balls back home had the same legislations. Right now Bulma felt almost ashamed to call herself a genius.

"He's lying," Vegeta said, his voice booming right down her ear, making her start and place a cold palm to her chest.

Vegeta was now standing seriously close to her again. But still, she was reluctant to give into the chance of looking weak, so her attention remained on Mr Mystery.

"Everything on this planet was destroyed fifteen years ago," Vegeta said scornfully.

Bulma couldn't help it this time, and spun round to see him, their faces too close for comfort. She could feel her features twisting with confusion, depicting her as even more of a downtrodden creature than before. "How—how would you know that?"

As the words crumbled from her chapped mouth, as did her composure, sending her legs as breakable as matchsticks. Choosing to sit down on yet another mouldy chair, she rubbed her temples with her knuckles, trying to get wind of everything.

"Say what you please, _Saiyan_. I don't expect you, of all the beings in this universe, to agree with my words."

Bulma looked up from her secluded, silent melt down, narrowing her eyes at Mr Mystery. Since being in his presence, she had noticed that he chose every single word carefully, almost meticulously, as if he were scared to let delicate information slip. Oh, she'd seen people act like this before on a daily basis; those highly paid scientists reeling off their ideas to her with smiles aplenty, until it came to crunch time and they had to reveal their extensive costs. At the moment, she might not be able to class herself as a genius anymore, but she was nowhere near being classed as a dunce, left to sit in a corner with one of those pointed hats on her head.

"Frieza. Does he know you're here?" The logical thoughts started forming, her confidence reviving groggily, like a bird in the spring time.

Mr Mystery scoffed and fidgeted, the agitation clear in his stiff movements. "Of course not. Only those who are pure can sense my life-force. Frieza still fails to understand the power behind the Dragon Balls."

Vegeta snorted unscrupulously, folding his arms firmly.

Bulma turned her head, only slightly, able to send Vegeta an indignant side glance, and then back to Mr Mystery. "So, what are you? What race were your people?"

By now, a couple of the candles had either burnt out or had been blown out by the occupants' insistent shifting around the room, casting a light veil of purple-ish shadow on the ceiling, which proceeded to sink with every dying candle. She could hear Vegeta moving restlessly.

"I am an Orling," Mr Mystery said quietly, pausing and taking a deep breath.

So, Bulma thought cockily, his cheery façade had truly crumbled. Around that fact, she didn't know why she felt so bitter about it, seeing as this creature was supposedly wanting to help her in some way; that's what she presumed, anyway.

His eyes met hers. "We are a cross between an Orlan and a Namekian," and he sighed deeply.

It hit her, full force, like she'd ran into a brick wall and smashed all her teeth. Of course. She saw it. Well, she didn't know what an Orlan looked like, but the ears, nose and mouth were startlingly similar to a Namekian. The only trait which had substantial difference was the white pigment of the skin, the protruding bumps on the forehead, and the black teeth. Words eluded her, but the Orling took that as polite understanding on her part. Orlan sounded vaguely familiar—it was straining her brain to recollect why.

"Yes. We shared this planet with a colony of Namekians on a secular level. They had left their planet because the threat of a purge was hanging over its head." Even he laughed at the irony.

Bulma began to put two and two together, her mind whirring away like a computer warding off a virus. "This planet?" she asked shyly, beneath a veil of thick eyelashes. Despite wanting the answer, she wasn't sure if she was prepared for it. The pulse in her wrists span out to her fingertips, making her tap her fingers restlessly.

The Orling frowned. "Planet Orlon."

An overwhelming tidal wave of nausea loomed threateningly above her head, as the name sank into her dry skin. She stifled a gasp with her palm, and leaned forward, allowing the springs in the chair to creak and croak.

"Planet Orlon," she mumbled, the name settling into her soft, spongy memory. She focused her attention on another flickering candle, one which lay in the very far corner of the room, right behind the Orling's chair. It was dying, and just before its light petered into oblivion, she looked back at the Orling.

"Planet zero-one-six-zero. That's right," she said, gingerly getting to her feet. "The planet's location in accordance with Earth. Capsule Corp used to ship deliveries here, I remember." She snapped her fingers. "That's why this is here," she said, enthusiastically gesturing to the surroundings. "And how I got all that stuff—the backpack. That was you?"

The Orling nodded.

Her eyes fell to the ground. "We're not too far from Earth then. Two, maybe three months travel, right?"

He nodded again, genuinely pleased for the time being.

Bulma shook her head and laughed incredulously. "I need to lie down." Rubbing her bangs off her forehead, she sighed, her eyes frosting over into a stare. The irritation from Vegeta, despite him not speaking it, was palpable, distracting her from what she really wanted to know.

A few blinks, and her eyes refocused. "Why are you helping me?"

The Orling stood, towering over her in a slightly intimidating manner. All the cheerfulness drained from his features as he approached, stopping a meter away from her. "Because I believe that you will do the right thing."

"Which is?"

He looked to the side dejectedly. "That, I cannot say, because it is yet to happen."

Bulma groaned, letting go of her hair, only for it to slowly sink back to the right position, because it was laden with so much grease. She'd had enough of all the cryptic nonsense. Why couldn't anyone ever be straight with her? A simple yes or no could go a long way. To be honest, she should have given him closed questions from the start. That way he couldn't meander his way around them.

"Anything else?" the Orling prompted sweetly, his eyes twinkling with promise.

Had he hoped for more? Was there more to be said?

She threw her hands up half-heartedly. "I don't know. Maybe."

"How about some tea, then?" he chimed politely.

Bulma gawked. "Tea?" and then sighed. "Ok, sure."

The Orling floated out the room, leaving her with the present situation lying heavy, like lead, on her shoulders, and Vegeta, of course, who was practically breathing his rage down her neck. So, she had to get it straight: This was planet Orlon, which homed both the Orlan and Namekian races (Or just a small portion of the Namekian race). Capsule Corp provided products to this planet (along with a couple others, who were significantly scant of technology, or any means to create any of their own), this particular Orling was the guardian, so in laymen terms, he was Orlon's Kami. All this information didn't stop her mind from regarding the fact that Vegeta knew more about this planet than he led her to believe. Judging by his edgy behaviour, she estimated that he was concealing something vital. But what? And why? Did it really all matter? All it could do was hinder her chances of surviving.

Absentmindedly, she traced her fingers back and forth across her lower lip, and stared at the ground, before being yanked back to reality by Vegeta's gruff voice.

"Whatever this freak says, it's irrelevant. It doesn't change what we have to do, which, I'll remind you, is to gather the Dragon Balls for Lord Frieza."

Bulma slowly turned to look at him over her shoulder, keeping her fingers on her lip, as the action somewhat soothed her nerves, working as a relaxant. She watched him carefully for any unfamiliar ticks. It had been almost four days, but she felt like she knew when Vegeta was acting 'off'. Would asking him really grant her the truth, though? Could she trust him? She shook her head, stretching a single blink out for the length of six.

"How did you know about this planet?" she said, dropping her arms to her side again.

Vegeta shrugged, his arms tightly folded. "Mindless words get around on Frieza's ship."

She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off.

"Get the backpack. We're leaving," he said, looking to the side.

"No, wait," she said, following him as he headed towards the bedroom.

Vegeta stopped, turned on his heels, directing his attention solely to her, with very little emotion crossing his features. "I'm not drinking this weirdo's fucking tea."

They both tore their eyes away from each other as the Orling wandered back into the room with only two cups of steaming tea in his hands. He narrowed his eyes at Vegeta again, persistent with making his hatred known. Bulma looked back from Vegeta to the Orling, trying to make her mind up about the possibilities their pasts each held.

She approached the Orling, Vegeta following behind, and gratefully took the tea, lavishing the warmth of the cup between her cold hands. Then a sudden thought seemed to entertain her curiosity. "Can't _you_ gather the Dragon Balls yourself?"

He laughed and shook his head vigorously. "No. I merely watch over them."

She arched an unkempt eyebrow, dismissing the suspicion which was niggling in her mind. "How long have you been down here?" The place was so dilapidated. It looked like a bomb had gone off. Surely the mess around this place wasn't good to be inhaling. It was a good thing that they couldn't stay long, because the air, slathered in toxic fumes, would soon melt its way into her lungs.

The Orling took a thoughtful sip of his tea, hissing afterwards. "About … fourteen years," he mused, looking at the ceiling.

She shook her head again. "How are you even _alive_?"

Setting the tea down on the arm of the chair, he said, "Unfortunately, I've had no choice but to feed off the mutations on this planet. That is why my body has thus mutated from that of an Orling native. My race is smaller, as we were a planet that thrived off our superb vegetation. You might say we were all vegetarians, I think is the term." He smiled ruefully.

Bulma's heart sank with a thud. Desperately, she wanted to hug this Orling. His home had been wiped out, and he was left to wallow in its ghost. The thought provoked a longing to help, provide comfort, but just as she took a step towards him, rough fingers wrapped around her wrist and dragged her backwards.

"We're leaving."

* * *

What a stupid, idiotic, simple-minded woman she was. If it wasn't for he, she would be dead (as would he, but that was beside the point). Now, instead of laying at the bottom of a salt water grave, she was wandering around this _Capsule _home, talking to that thing, prying information which was of no use nor any of her concern. And he felt the need to take her away from all that. Something about him yelled imploringly to keep her as naive as possible, refraining her from knowing the information that could potentially drive her insane.

He pulled her into the bedroom with a little more force than he initially intended, twisting the skin uncomfortably on her tiny wrists. But she was yet to holler in pain like he expected, instead complying with his demand by keeping silent. He threw her forward, letting go of her arm, and watched as she stumbled into the empty space between the bed and the useless excuse of a window. Straight away, after gathering her balance, she charged for the doorway again, her eyes gleaming with delinquency. What a petulant creature!

With very little effort, he pressed both hands into the hollows of her collar bones, and pushed her against the wall adjoining the doorway, pinning her to face him. The room was free of candles, and her skin was illumed, like pale moonlight. Averting her eyes, and he noticed this with a strange, incessant flutter in his stomach, she stuck her full underlip out, only slightly, showing him a glimpse of the shiny, saliva slicked inner mouth of hers. He let her go, but she didn't move, nor did she look his way. This desert flower had lost the will to fight anymore. For that, he wanted to punish her, but that would only worsen their superfluous partnership.

"What are you doing?" he said, rubbing his jaw because he didn't know what else to do with his hands.

Still, irritatingly, her eyes remained fixed on anything except the Prince of Saiyans. What a rude little bitch. Any other time and he would blast this idiot, but no, he had to remain placid … for now, though it was proving, undeniably, to be the hardest thing he had had to do. Roughly, he grasped her shoulders and shook her back to sense.

"Answer me," he spat, narrowing his eyes at her, as she eventually chose to grant him her attention. "You don't know who the fuck that thing is. He could, for all you know, be working with Frieza." Vegeta scoffed, then whispered, "A nice little trap for the _pure_, little Earthling."

Sucking her lip back in, she frowned. "He's not like that." Her body visibly tensed as Vegeta threw his arms up in mock defeat, almost swiping her face.

"That's absurd. You've known him less than five minutes-" he said, stopping abruptly, his eyes glossing over as the truth dawned on him heavier and hotter than a two tonne heap of molten lava. Why was he concerned? It was true, yes, that he too, had only known this woman for a matter of days, probably an even shorter time than that weirdo had been stalking her. Just the thought made him boil over in unnecessary rage. To ebb the unwanted emotion, he hit the wall with enough force to crack the plaster right beside her head, his breathing laboured with the stress of the unfamiliar feeling.

A tiny, cold hand rested, gingerly at first, on his chest above his heart, pulling him out of his dazed state of confusion. Wide eyed, he bent his head to look at her hand, how pale and filthy it was; how there were lacerations, no doubt from that desert creature, across the thin span of skin. A carnal need to lick them clean was pushing away the anger, and his dark eyes finally lifted to meet hers against the blackened room and damp silence. Keeping his eyes on hers, searching for what she was searching for, he wrapped his fingers around her wrist, feeling the warmth of skin-burn, which had bloomed from his rough handling before, pulsing like a protest to his heavy touch. It was true, he wanted to get her away from him, rip her wretched human hand away from his royal self, but he also wanted to wrap her up and shield her from this nightmare.

She took a deep breath, her eyes wet with useless tears. "I'm sorry I led you here—and I'm sorry we're so far off track. But, Vegeta, you _have_ to trust me."

She tried fruitlessly to free her arm from his strong grip, and he tightened it, sighing, but not from pity. There was no time for pity in this game. He sighed because he was stuck, once again, and like a spinning penny, he had to topple over eventually. From the start, he knew that she would pose a problem. The fact that they'd put him with a female was enough to tell him that this ride wasn't going to be as smooth as he had planned. And there she was again, spouting that crap about 'trust' and 'belief'; all words he had little regard for, because they were redundant in his eyes. That was evident, because he had been led to believe that they were in search of the dragon ball, not some lurking buffoon, who assumed he knew all there was to know. Well, that moron knew nothing—nothing useful anyway. His words were toxic to her ears. She was not to listen to anyone but the Saiyan Prince, and if she chose otherwise, let it be on her head, because he would not save her again.

Vegeta leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers, unprepared for her vicious scent, and said, "I don't trust anyone."

Without warning, the soft press of her flaking, feathery lips met his, startling him, forcing him to retract. Her eyes were wild, as he reached up to rub the wetness from his lower lip, and then burnishing it between his finger and thumb. It was sweet and spicy, the kind of flavour deemed as moreish, and his body began to respond, awakening with languid delay.

Before she could apologise, he homed in on her like she was his one and only meal, forcing his lips upon her cherry-red mouth, pressing his body against hers so hard that she had to nudge up the wall for room to breathe. She gasped for air when he gave her a second, before she hungrily pulled his face down to hers, locking their lips together again, allowing him to taste her sweet, innocent mouth. All the pain and guilt flowed out of him into her, and she accepted it, running her hands through his thick hair, pulling lightly at the roots, sending zaps of desire through his nerve system. With unrelenting want, he ran his hands either side of her narrow waist, travelling upwards, catching the sides of her surprisingly full breasts, then positioning her arms above her head, all the while her soft moans of acceptance filled his ears, stirring burning movement in his loins.

It took him away for a single, solitude moment, except her presence was there too, vibrating around him with a harmonious buzz. It took him somewhere; another planet. Not this planet. Somewhere far away from here. Somewhere that tasted like freedom and hope, and he craved it, grasping at her fraying t-shirt, eagerly wanting more of those delicious flavours.

He didn't trust anyone. The thought was so abhorrent it made him feel sick. Taking it out in whatever form necessary was fine with him, and if it happened to be something as low as fucking this Earthling, then so be it. She was weak, nimble, and she was in his power, no matter what happened to them in the future. Even if they survived, he would make damn sure that she could never do this with another male ever again, because this was _his_ right, no one else's. He was the one who had to contend with her during this game, exhausting him mentally and physically, begging him to question his own better judgement. He was a Saiyan Prince, a leader, not a straggling follower from some backwater planet.

With anger and desire mottled as one, he caught the soft, throbbing flesh of her bottom lip, and clamped down, drawing a bead of blood. She groaned behind clenched teeth, opposing his actions, but absorbing them, because she was yielding to him. Then he cupped her breasts, kneading them harshly, making her wince behind his feverish kisses, though her tongue coiling around his beckoned him to go on, to take this further.

"Ng," she uttered, before wrenching her mouth free of his, and pushing him feebly, allowing the cold to consume the space between their rasping breaths. "No."

There was a marvellous pink hue on her cheeks, bringing life to her dying face again. Her nipples were hard beneath her t-shirt, the tiny stubs poking through the thin material; he had felt them brushing against his chest, agonisingly, making him want to die if she wouldn't let him taste them. Like the shy juvenile from before, she looked towards the doorway, panting, feigning disinterest, while her body revealed what she truly, truly wanted; her entire face glowing with the same crave as he.

What the fuck was she looking at?

Vegeta followed her line of vision, and his body jolted when he saw that damn Orling standing before them, staring at them, like the shitty, little pervert he was. Instantly, Vegeta pulled himself away from Bulma's ready, sweating frame, and stormed out the room, leaving her with her little friend, because frankly, he couldn't give a shit anymore. And, if he didn't get out of there quickly, he would have killed one of them. All he had to do was decide which one would go first.

* * *

Dizzy and exposed, the cold rushing and weaving through the erect hairs on her body, Bulma stared at the disapproving lavender beacons, which glowered at her from beyond the pane of darkness. For a moment she had dipped her toe, delicately, into a pool of warm passion, and taken a handful of its sugary water, lapping and lapping. And then just as quick was removed from that place, and hurled dangerously close to the edge of death again. Back to reality. This game of Frieza's. Then there was the Orling, who, for some bizarre reason, had put his trust in her, yet she had nothing to prove that she was capable of being trusted. If this Orling knew the ins and outs of her, then he would know that she had cheated Vegeta into thinking he was going somewhere else, and that she once kissed a man in a night club when she was dating Yamcha, and that she once flashed an lecherous old man when she was sixteen. None of it, even if this creature knew, set right. It sat together like wet paper mache; a sopping, wet pile of lumpy lies.

The feel of Vegeta's reluctant hands wandering across her body made her want to scream for many other reasons as well as desire, and now he'd stalked off. But that was the point—he couldn't get far. Neither of them ever could. They had only surrendered to nature's calling, because they had been stuck together. Otherwise she wouldn't have even known his strange character. She crossed her arms, covering, and giving herself some dignity, though she couldn't hide her swollen lips and tinted cheeks. Without shedding a single glance at the Orling (whose name she was too scared to ask), she paced out, back into the dark dappled, flickering room, to plonk herself on a chair.

The game was important to her. Surviving was important to her. _Chichi_ was important to her; not some tight-rope, physical relationship with a murdering Saiyan.

"Is Chichi still alive?" she asked, her voice a monotone, a ghost of her former confident self.

The ruffling sound of the Orling's clothes, as he ensconced himself on his chair, reverberated through the quiet room. Bulma then wandered where, exactly, Vegeta had gone off to. No matter where he was, he could hear every word being uttered in this house.

"Where is she?" Bulma said, a little more determination and authority in her voice, which, at that precise moment, made Vegeta stalk back into the room. Her eyes followed him, forcing her to twist her body slightly, as he stepped behind the couch she was sitting on, only to disregard her completely. A brittle pane of some yearning emotion shattered in her chest.

"Yes. There is a female Earthling."

Her attention was immediately drawn back to the Orling, who looked consumed by thought, gazing at his own shadow dancing against the adjacent wall.

"She's on the other side of the planet," he added, to answer Bulma's second question.

Her heart ached for her best friend in a way that both hurt and elated her. On one hand, Chichi was amongst the living, but on the other, she was across the globe. "Shit …" Bulma placed her head in her hands, shaking. "We won't get there in time." Everything she had worked towards so far, which, actually, had felt like a years' worth of painstaking labour, may as well have been flushed down the toilet, never to be seen again. Biting back the tears, she continued to shake her head, thinking more about the rhythm of the movement, than the harsh reality of her impatient demise.

"Yes, we will," Vegeta grumbled, and she could tell he was pinching his brow.

The Orling stood up, and the soft tug of the mouldy furniture fabric was audible from Vegeta gripping it so tightly. Bulma groggily lifted her head, allowing her eyes to adjust to the low light in the room, and the massive, looming figure of the Orling, who was now right in front of her.

"You can communicate with me telepathically. If you are in danger," he added sullenly, casting a poisonous, purple glance at Vegeta.

Bulma squinted, trying to muster the image before her, gluing her thoughts together to form a sentence.

_'How do I do that?'_

The Orling let a small smile slip his lips. '_Exactly right, Bulma Briefs.'_

She frowned. "If you say it's because I'm pure, I'm going to scream," she snapped, clenching her fists.

Vegeta huffed and stalked away again, clearly unamused by their telepathic connection. It might have put a hollow dint in his plans, but she was quite content with it. So what if she could do something he couldn't. It wasn't like she harboured even an ounce of the power he controlled, so what was the problem? The more she could prove herself useful, the easier it would be to find Chichi.

The Orling chuckled, composed himself, and nodded, as if he wasn't programmed to express happiness. "You had better be on your way, before Frieza becomes suspicious."

* * *

Pacing through the hallway, his tail whipping violently behind him, Frieza was making his way back to Zarbon, clearly unable to leave that idiot under control for over an hour. Being Lord was becoming ever so tiring. If he could, he would give it up, perhaps hand it over to some other sad sap who wanted ultimate power. There would be plenty of takers, no doubt, but they would have to prove themselves against him. Seeing as most warriors had the sense to stay out of his way, Frieza sadly concluded that his reign wouldn't be reckoned with for an extensive amount of time. Maybe even forever. Slipping beside the point, he had been summoned with utmost immediacy, by Zarbon's whining shrill, that he had some delicious information about his gamers.

Choosing that his precious contenders had been getting up to something dirty behind his back, Frieza found it hard to resist the urge of knowing what could have gotten Zarbon's lacy underwear in such a twist. Frieza casually strolled in, controlling his temperamental temper, and his eyes locked onto to Zarbon, who stood to attention with one arm over his chest. The control panel to the side of him bleeped irritatingly. He would remember to destroy it before he left.

"Well?" he said, looking past Zarbon and beyond the large, crystal glass window at his own reflection. "Spit it out!"

Zarbon jerked his head to the holographic image of planet zero-one-six-zero. "Vegeta has been trying to relay some information, but it appears that his signal is blocked."

Frieza motioned for him to go on.

"Ah … The message is disjointed, but I've deciphered a few words," Zarbon said, coughing afterwards, and turning to a small screen, bringing up a black-lettered sentence amongst a piercing white background.

Frieza's eyes glanced over the words and widened with a mixture of curiosity and rage. So, it appeared, despite the sporadic updates, that Vegeta was ringing true to his word, but this bowl of mistuned information was indeed a handful of salt on an open, puss engorged wound. This was mainly because Frieza couldn't get the gist of what it meant. And why, in the name of King Cold, was Vegeta's signal blocked? That was an impossibility. The technology on this ship was flawless! Frieza vowed that he would condemn whoever had tinkered with his toys. But for now, he had to grab that scrawny Saiyan by the scruff of his neck, and drain the answers from him.

And if he had to personally intervene, then so be it.


	11. Chapter 11 - Day Five

Contending with Darkness

Chapter 11 - Day five

Looking at her at that moment , there wasn't much to see. Everything about human nature was grotesque, yet so alluring all the same. She was the opposite of an oil painting, as the closer you got to her, taking in all the intricate details, the more vivid and controlled her image became. She was riddled with physical imperfections, the glow of her pale skin fading with every passing moment. And he, a Saiyan Prince, basking in the glowing light of physical perfection, was attracted to such a low class female as this?

There she was, anyway, with one leg up on the bed, balancing while she gawked at that damn anklet again, her eyes abnormally large. Time was ticking away ever so quickly, and she was swallowing it whole to study something which was both irremovable and unbreakable. He wanted to strangle her, so much. It was a yearning so desperate and forceful that he had to keep his distance from her at times (as far as he _could_ get). But, sadly, he knew that even if he grazed her skin with his worn out fingertips, he would have to consume her completely, taking her with relentless force, until she could no longer move. That was _not_ on the agenda, nor were most of the frivolous events that had taken place so far. The main focus was that they were halfway through this so called 'game', with only two opponents left to face.

He rolled his shoulders, then cracked his neck, as he stood in the shadow consumed doorway, between the sitting room and bedroom. The loud crick of his joints brought her shocking blue eyes to his standing, starting from his shoes and raking their way up his face, unfocused and glazed in thought. She had been like this for the best part of an hour now. Yet again, that Orling had vanished, claiming he had something vital to attend to. Vegeta didn't know what that moron was up to, lurking around the planet, but he did know that it wasn't anything to be overly concerned about. Besides that, though, dealing with her peculiar behaviour was just something else to falter their advancements, and he really didn't have the time to spare.

Her eyes flickered with inane curiosity, so before she could open her mouth to spout unnecessary crap, he cut her off.

"Do you _want_ to die?" he said, keeping close to the doorframe, because his fingers were twitching, and his anger had the frequent tendency to spark from the littlest actions these days.

"I don't plan on it, no," she said, her voice brimming with certainty all of a sudden.

In that moment, her features softened, and he felt compelled by her once again, his hands relaxing at his sides. The way her lips curled at the corners, bringing the subtle creases under her eyes to life. Regardless, it wasn't the reaction he wanted to reel back from her. The fact of the matter was; she wasn't afraid of his threats anymore. Not that she had been particularly terrified to begin with, but even shedding an ounce of fear in his presence was enough to beckon him to rip someone limb from limb. At first, that was all he could thing of doing to this woman—to relish in the delicious downpour of her warm blood as he tore the muscles clean from her glossy bones. The only flavour he want to taste now was the sweet salt between her skinny, little legs. But even that seemed utterly detestable in the back of his mind.

It was a few heated seconds-her eyes locked onto his, like he was the only thing she could ever look at—before she reverted her wavering attention back to the device, using her scrawny fingers to pinch the skin, thus cajoling her own blood over the rusting metal bolts that were drilled through the bone. His face contorted with disgust. Any form of self-infliction was abhorred by a Saiyan. It was deemed as weak, not to mention useless. A warrior should only spill blood in battle—that blood being the enemies', of course.

The smell of iron was faint in the air. A swelling in his chest tried to usher him to stop her from harming herself, but he refused to be her minder. Soon enough, when she'd be on her hands and knees, taking in her last breath, he would give her the satisfaction of death, but not now.

"Messing with that thing isn't going to make a shred of difference."

She shrugged, non-committed to the half-hearted response. "No harm in trying."

The sound of her voice was hollow, though he knew her spirit had been lifted with the knowledge of her fellow Earthling's on-going lifespan. Perhaps she was feigning the hope she so determinedly held onto for the sake of his unruly temper? Nevertheless, time was of the essence, and there was now a thin rivulet of blood wandering down the anklet, over the protruding bump of her ankle, and eventually blooming on the mouldy mattress. Disgusting.

He removed his torrid gaze from her pathetic display, and muttered, "Evidently," before bending to pick up the bag, then tossing it on the bed, shaking her up quite satisfyingly.

The sound of the five Dragon Balls (his hope, his freedom, his glorious golden keys to immortality) jangling was like listening to the faint whisper of a beautiful song. No longer had it started, it had ended. They both stared at the bag, its tethered, navy material, the broken, rusty zip swinging back and forth like an old, weathered pendulum. Before long, the silence chipped at his skin, forcing him to ponder upon words that he didn't want to say to this female Earthling, so, to counteract it, he walked away, giving her—once again—more of his time.

* * *

It wasn't much, but it would get them through the remaining three days of their lives. Bulma stood straight, feeling the uncomfortable squelch of cold feet in damp boots, and she picked up one of the three cans of beans, which the Orling had had stowed away in the kitchen. After hearing the horrific confession of how he kept the groaning cry of hunger at bay, by eating the mutated, murderous creatures of this planet, she decided that he wouldn't miss a few cans of baked beans. They were out of date, too, though becoming violently ill didn't sound half bad, given her circumstances. At least that way she wouldn't have to continue.

But, no, Chichi was _alive_.

The label on the can she had in hand was crusted with rust, and shrivelled so much that she had to open one to determine its contents. The beans themselves looked OK, though they smelled ripe, almost sweet. She would hold her nose when the time came to eat them. These days she couldn't be too fussy. The times of being weighted on hand and foot had long been sucked up in the black hole of her past. Even if she was successful in this game, there was very little hope that she could ever go back to that. Earth might not even be there anymore, and God knew how she could ever get back there.

There was a shattering-like crepitation in the next room, making Bulma freeze, when placing all the items she'd scavenged in the backpack. Her fingers danced a solitary rhythm, tapping against the can, before she dumped it in the bag and ran into the living room, only to find Vegeta standing unusually close to the freshly returned Orling.

The living room was practically devoid of light. With no Orling to re-light the candles, the job became overlooked. Luckily, her eyes had endured so much darkness in this game that she could determine whose silhouette belonged to whom. They both swivelled towards her, gazing at her like she had interrupted an important business meeting between the two alien creatures.

"Your Saiyan friend doesn't seem too pleased with my proposition," the Orling said, straightening out his rumpled clothing with talons for nails.

Vegeta resumed an indifferent posture, teetering on the edge of a childish shrug. "There is no way. Don't you think you've caused enough destruction?"

The Orling laughed scornfully, baring his charcoal teeth. Bulma had never witnessed him being so hostile; it was unnerving to watch a creature who floated in a benevolent haze, to switch so easily.

"What proposition?" she said, looking at the Orling, but keeping a distant watch on Vegeta through her peripheral.

"To take you halfway to your next destination. My reasoning for being able to take you only halfway is the fear of detection. Any further and my sparse life force might become noticeable to a wanting eye."

"That won't be necessary," Vegeta spat, disregarding the Orling, and pacing towards her with hatred blazing in his eyes.

Her stomach swirled so rapidly she was almost sick. "Yes," she blurted, her eyes dancing from the Orling back to Vegeta. "Yes, it will."

Vegeta wrapped his fingers around her wrist. The unexpected contact made her jump, but the welcoming feel the gesture emanated sent her almost floating off the ground. Her voice softened as she shyly met his eyes. "Vegeta, I'm not going through that tunnel again."

The crease in his brow deepened at the antagonistic memory of her inches from death.

She closed her dry mouth in a frivolous attempt to moisten it again, but when Vegeta graced her with any physical contact, all the moisture in the world couldn't dampen her pallet. "Think of the time we could save," she muttered, looking to the Orling, who was scowling, his eyes now sinister slits, their purple irises darkening.

Vegeta let go of her wrist, turned away. "We could have been there by now if you weren't making futile attempts to disengage that device," he roared into the open doorway of the empty bedroom.

Usually, he would have bellowed those harsh words directly into her face, but now things were different. Something was different about him. Whether their heated kiss had anything to do with it was a valid question, but surely he saw it as merely a slip up? It wouldn't have happened if she hadn't been so physically weak, limping into the open arms of temptation. Maybe she had knocked his pride down a notch, and now he could barely stand to look at her without wanting to tear her to shreds.

_'Right now, Bulma Briefs, you shouldn't be worrying about the Saiyan. You should be worrying about yourself.'_

Her eyes widened as embarrassment pumped through her body.

'_Isn't that a bit rude, reading peoples' minds whenever you feel like?' _She chose not to look at the Orling. She couldn't, fidgeting in a faint miasma of her own, hot humility.

Vegeta spun round, glowering down at her, his lips tight like he was holding back an explosion of sulphuric words. His arm shot out to the side, pointing at the Orling.

"This freak has done _more_ than enough. We're fine without him."

Containing her thoughts, Bulma simply nodded, her lips pinched together, and turned to the Orling, noticing, out the corner of her eyes, Vegeta's arm flopping to his side again. The hindering thought of having to push herself through that impossibly tight tunnel had been giving her chills the moment she was dragged back into consciousness. There was also a definitive reason why she couldn't go back there—she physically _couldn't_ go back there. Anything to avoid going back through that hell again would be a blessing. Or would dying be more fitting, right now?

She blinked a few times, blinking away the painful dryness of tired eyes, and turned to Vegeta, the Saiyan who she had to place all her trust in, whether he was worthy of it or not. A shot of uncertainty caught her off guard as he gazed back at her, with an expectant frown plastered across his pristine face. Tears brimmed on her waterlines, but she swabbed them, their bitter warmth a welcoming sensation on her hands, making the desire for a hot bath even more prominent.

"Please, I don't want to go through that again," she said, sniffing any adventurous mucus that was threatening to drip.

Vegeta looked to the ceiling, and she could see that he was struggling with his conscience. It was such a sad and pathetic thing they had wound up in, being stuck together for the remaining days of their lives, having to consider every movement in case the other erupts and kills them both.

Before long, the Orling was at Bulma's side, reaching to lay a hand on her shoulder. Vegeta's jaw tightened, but he steadied his actions by crossing his arms. It seemed to be the Saiyan's default position.

"Do you know where to find your friend?" the Orling said, retracting his hand slowly, and desperately holding onto a waning smile.

"Yeah. She's quite far, but with your help—"

"Bulma," Vegeta grumbled truculently, shifting his disapproving eyes from the pealing plaster on the ceiling to hers.

Her eyes narrowed as confusion fed its way through her system. _Had he just … It didn't matter_. There had to be a way to meet in the middle. If Vegeta was plainly unwilling to allow the Orling to help them significantly, then he had to at least let him assist in some way, even if it was minimal.

"Can you just transport us out of the cave?" she said, and the irritated, quick movement of Vegeta throwing his hands up made her skin prickle with anger. It was obviously in his nature to rely solely on his own capabilities, so when offered help, he felt obliged to throw it back into the helper's face. This was nor the time or place to work alone.

"Of course." The Orling nodded, though she saw his shoulders slump only a touch.

He wanted to help so much more, yet all she could take was a slice. They needed all the help they could get, except, unfortunately, she had been partnered up with someone who made that incredibly tough. Judging by Vegeta's piercing silence, she decided they had come to a disgruntled, yet fair agreement, so she grabbed her bag and damp hoody, and prepared to journey on for the next Dragon Ball.

* * *

_Trays topped with what looked like grey porridge, which in fact owned a salty, meaty quality, were taken one by one, by the masses of zombie-like creatures, to whatever spaces they could find in the expanse of metal chairs and tables that suffocated the canteen. Vegeta's nostrils flared as a particularly odorous warrior walked by, partly clad in black leather skirts, with a sheet of black fabric covering his marginally tiny head. This was meal time. Every day, the same shit. An hour a day, he was left to either join the sweaty montage of fallen warriors (slaves, as he liked to call them), or roam the empty corridors of Frieza's ship._

_Conversation was never on the agenda. If anyone tried speaking to the Prince, he would beat them senseless, and whether he would stop in time to let them live was neither here nor there. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Very rarely did he venture into the canteen, because it made him feel sick to his stomach. A literal tearing sensation would occur in his abdomen, leading him to the nearest waste room to cough up his insides. On this occasion, with anguished amusement, his sightless gaze wandered across the packed room, and one thought ran through his mind: Lucky Bastards. You see, these soldiers, as much as they loathed the very presence of the Prince, were far better off in this God forsaken shit pile than he was, despite their copious complaints._

_Raucous laughter and hearty jaunts flooded the room, while Vegeta stood, isolated in his own malice, guarded, and left without a single soul to trust. There were warriors slouched in their chairs, food dribbling from their stubbly chins as they imbibed jugs of the cheapest alcohol in the galaxy. Did they not realise their lives were on the line? Or did the idiots know this, and choose to act as if this so-called meal was their last? Either way, Vegeta never wanted to be a part of their feigned, jovial gatherings. And they didn't want him there, either. When he had stepped into the room, the tension and hatred towards him had been tangible, but when he made no move to torment, they continued on with their biddings like he wasn't there at all._

_His lip stiffened; time was passing quicker than water through an open hand, and he chose that these creatures were not worth it, not worth his fraying time, or presence. He shouldn't have been there. It wasn't his place to be; stuck in a shit-smelling hovel with a bunch of low class warriors, who he could obliterate at the blink of an eye. No. It was such a distasteful realisation his face crumpled with disgust, as he proceeded to pass through the throngs of warriors, each casting a brave, yet subtle glance in his direction._

_Vegeta stopped dead, his fists clenching to his sides, as the four speakers in each corner of the canteen crackled with the dreaded chime of an oncoming announcement. All the laughter vanished, replaced by the ear piercing sound of hundreds of chair legs scraping against metal floors. Every warrior was on their feet, standing erect with their chins pointing into their chests, a few of them noticeably shaking and sweating with anticipation._

_"Good afternoon, little lab rats," Zarbon chimed over the mic. "Just a quick announcement."_

_A sharp intake of breath was heard from somewhere in the centre of the room._

_"Vegeta is to report to Lord Frieza in his quarters immediately. That's Vegeta, to Lord Frieza, pronto. Spit spot, your highness." Zarbon snickered as the message drawled out, until there was nothing left but heavy silence._

_Eyes were on him, all the eyes in the room, burrowing into his tough exterior, trying to crush him, and make him feel something. The only thing he could feel was emptiness. Even in his free hour, he had been called to do the most damnable of deeds with his tormentor._

_The rubber of his gloves squelched, the sound echoing through the canteen louder, as his nails bore into his palms. He had no choice, no say, and no way out, so he squared his shoulders and strode out the room, feeling the stares and the accusing eyes following his every move. No one ever dared catch his eye, though, or there would be a debt to pay._

_Inches away from leaving the room, a distant, sinister voice shouted, "Frieza's little lap dog, off to please his master once again," followed by a chesty laugh._

_In the next couple of seconds, a quarter of that room was no more than a pile of charred bodies, left for someone else to clean up, while all the other warriors tremulously sat down in their metal chairs, and continued to eat their salty meals with shaking hands._

_Vegeta's lip curled as he dropped his arm to his side, irritated that he had had to waste any energy on such cretins. It wouldn't be long before he would reign over this galaxy and the next. Going about it undetected meant he had to comply with Frieza's demands, but he was no one's lap dog. Never was, and never would be.  
_

* * *

"You're not lying to me, are you?"

Tresses of blue hair draped lazily over her left shoulder as she cocked her head to the side, her brow screwing up in concentration as she held onto the bleeping device. If Vegeta didn't know better, he would have assumed he'd insulted her in some way or another, but, if he remembered correctly, which he always did, did she, or did she not lead him astray several hundred miles, at the expense of an entire day? The truth dawned on her wan face, gripping her loose shoulders and tightening her stance, so maybe she could feel a little less guilty. It radiated from her, though, clearer and darker than the task he had yet to finish.

The Orling had taken them—sidling away from the plan—several hundred miles towards their next destination, leaving them in a pleasant, fluorescent expanse, where waxy, purple grass became flattened under heavy metal boots. Before Vegeta had the chance to strike the mischievous pervert, he had dematerialised, yet again, without any explanation. The Orling knew what he had done, and would not walk away unscathed. So, according to the woman, they had only two hundred miles of sparse terrain to cross before they reached her so-called _friend_. The word left a bitter taste in his mouth. He knew better than to have such a useless form of acquaintance with any other living soul.

"No, I'm not," she said, shaking her head with vehemence, her bright eyes tugging at his bravado.

The sun glittered across the grass, helping to capture everything and anything in sight. If, on the off-chance, anything was to jump out and claw hungrily at this woman, he would know further in advance, and then he would … No, he wouldn't, would he? Protect her? No, he would slay the beast with utmost ease and grace, leaving her awed and struck motionless by his eternal prowess. Vegeta frowned, his thoughts cascading and whirling uncontrollably in a massive jumble around his overused brain. They wouldn't get the best of him again.

She approached him, side stepping, her arms clasped at her chest, the tender skin on her forearms gleaming in the late sunlight, revealing tiny, erect hairs. To get to the next Dragon Ball, they had to travel for several hours, yet she had no form of transport. He knew this was bound to happen sometime, so instead of dwelling upon the overdue, abomination of an act, he pulled her into his chest (she yelped, the stupid woman, from his heavy handling), wound his arms tight around her malnourished waist, and sped into the sky, leaving a swirl of dancing grass strands and grit behind.

A couple, strained hours later, thinking not of her gentle pulse under his palm, but of the direction which they were headed, Vegeta's determined and conditioned thoughts were interrupted by the hoarseness of her voice trying to break through the pounding income of one hundred mile per hour air.

"We should—" She coughed, spluttered in fact, keeping her head low, tilting her blue crown for him to steal several glances.

His hold on her tightened.

"We should land soon." Another dry cough. "If we want to go on unnoticed."

Her arms were attached so firmly, it made his head pound with contemplation. The violently quick image of him simply letting her fall was all too dream-like, though every time he got the itch to do it, an intensified image of her very much alive, her legs wrapped around his waist as he poured himself into her, strangled the previous thought, and left it lifeless in the corner of his mind.

What did she take him for? Of course he knew to land soon. Granted, he had been struggling to concentrate on their rate of travel, while holding onto a woman, who, a mere few hours ago, had pressed her wet mouth against his desperate and ashamedly relentless one. He hissed, sucking in the freezing air through his teeth. What had become of him? How could he have slipped so far below the depths of Hell?

He sharply and suddenly plummeted through plumes of damp clouds, the moisture gluing in globules to his face and arms the further he descended. Not a single utterance came from her as he bombed to the ground, landing soundlessly onto balding, black soil. Immediately, like a locked door springing open to spill all the indecencies inside, he let go of her, watched with slits for eyes as she stumbled from his grasp and dizzily wandered, clutching a skeletal hand to her abdomen.

She fell to her knees and heaved, regurgitated a creamy fluid that was dotted with lumps of the sparse food she had scarfed before leaving the Orling's hovel. The wind was violent, knocking clods of dirt and feathery weeds into her path as she sat there, scrunched up and mewing like a petrified animal, coughing her guts out. Vegeta sneered and forced himself to turn away. It was about time he had some space from her noxious presence, even if it was only a few meters.

The cloud cover was too heavy, the wind too wild, the air too dense. Every step too loud, every breath like a rumble of thunder. In any moment, a bomb could go off. But he could not sense the detonator. No life force was close by. Not a single pulse, except hers, was beating in his ears, which could only determine that they were either in the wrong fucking place, or something out of control was going to happen. When the sound of her clumsy footsteps stomped behind him, the area seemed to open up to him, the sheer unfamiliarity of it all. It appeared they had landed in some sort of built up graveyard, nothing like the downtrodden architecture he had witnessed before.

Thousands of headstones and towering statues, all spread across endless miles of dirt. Naked trees boarded the ghostly space, some resembling that of a childhood nightmare with their clawed branches and twisted, grimacing faces engraved in their trunks. He walked on, like he was supposed to, one foot in front of the other, step by step, being able to hear the gasp of decomposing leaves under his careful advancements. Something about the place was warning him, shouting at him to turn back, but he couldn't. Every gravestone was pristine, like they had never been touched by a brutal hand. But it couldn't be? How? There should have been nothing left.

"So that's what they looked like, huh," Bulma whispered, beckoning him to see what she was doing. Wasting more time, no doubt.

She stood before a stone figure of a creature, holding onto her hair as the wind tried to manipulate it into fluttering around her eyes. The figure was that of an Orling native, its long gown, the pock marks on its skin, the pointed ears and protruding lumps on the forehead. Other than the severe difference in height, it would have been an exact replica of that fucking magician Vegeta had had the displeasure of meeting earlier.

Vegeta reached out to grab her shoulder, when a feminine voice resounded deep in his skull, whispering the words only death could bring, setting Vegeta as motionless as the statue he stood before.

* * *

It was perfect, smooth, unblemished, and captured years of history into stone. The eyes were haunting. Despite it being an inanimate object, she felt like the eyes could see—could see her. They could read into her soul, all the shameful thoughts she had had over the last few days; thoughts about dying, suicide, sex and lust. Everything. The reason for these thoughts—Vegeta—had unmistakably come as a tidal wave. Never, ever, ever did she expect to attain any feelings for someone like Vegeta, and it teased her. Her own mind, leading her into a spider's web. Why would she do that? Why couldn't she just stop thinking like that, and gather some sense for once?

For a minute longer, she stared listlessly at the grey exterior of the past life on this planet, this lonely planet. Something sparked in the corner of her mind's eye, and bounced erratically like a disoriented blue bottle. Bulma closed her eyes tight, knocking the sound of the howling wind away for a moment, to focus on the flicker of light. It was red. A tiny dot, bouncing from one corner to the other. Very lively. Very alive.

You know when a day can go by like a dream, only a hazy memory of events that didn't seem concrete enough to be real? When flickers of black and white images fly past an unfocused eye, and you can't catch the gist of their meaning? Bulma became bombarded with so many vivid colours and words that it made the bile churn in her stomach.

Bulma spun round, suddenly enthralled by the sight of a nonplussed Vegeta so close to her, his eyes wild and mouth slightly ajar. His usual bronze skin had blanched, and his pupils dilated to pin pricks. He was staring at the ground beyond her feet, at first provoking her to turn, but there was only an eroding and crumbled headstone, with an inscription too distorted to decipher. All the fibres in her body started to jolt, the apprehension strangling her will to move. Somehow she managed to shift the backpack into a more comfortable position, as the weight of it was beginning to eat into her left shoulder.

She looked back to Vegeta, wanting desperately to shake some sense into him. "Vegeta?"

The wind ragged her hair so it straggled in her eyes, forcing her to smear the greasy locks back from her forehead. He had still yet to look at her. What was he doing? Where they about to die?

"Vegeta, what's wrong?" she shouted, stepping up to him, trying to get him to at least acknowledge her presence, without having to click her fingers in his face.

With a shaking hand, she reached out to touch him, when he sharply sprang back to life and grabbed her wrist, trapping the blood flow, making her curl closer to him in pain. The skin twisted, shooting roaring fire through her veins. Her knees buckled as she tried to break free, making her perform an awkward stumble towards him.

"What are you doing?" She pulled again, digging her heels into the crisp dirt. "You're hurting me."

His eyes refocused and shifted back to hers, and he snapped open his offending palm, releasing her.

In any other situation, Bulma would have ran at that moment. That wasn't an option. She had to stay, remain in the presence of this unpredictable, erratic and seriously dangerous Saiyan. Who was the enemy, really? Was Frieza such a villain in all of this? Or was Vegeta thousand times worse?

She tenderly nursed her wrist, wincing when she saw that the skin had split, allowing trickles of blood to escape the slivery cuts. She wanted to cry, but what good would that do? After thinking that perhaps he wouldn't hurt her again-

"Bulma," a voice shrieked in the distance.

She dropped her bleeding arm, forgetting the pain, and whirled around, her head darting from side to side, following the same life-force as before.

"Bulma," the voice squawked again, this time resounding from behind a prism-shaped crypt.

Bulma bolted for it, meandering through the different shaped and coloured headstones, the backpack bouncing off her spine. All she could see was the distasteful, grey prism growing larger and larger the closer and more breathless she became. These few days had really taken their toll on her physical capabilities. Back home, she could run alongside Goku for miles, but now, she could barely walk.

A glimpse of jet black hair shone from the back of the crypt, before vanishing behind it again, as if it had never been there in the first place. It was enough familiarity to send Bulma's heart racing. "Chichi," she gasped, stopping to catch her breath, clutching her knees.

The raven haired woman bumbled from behind the broken building, struggling with something, and muttering unintelligible words. Bulma grimaced, trying to take in as much oxygen as possible without straining her chest. When the rest of Chichi came out from behind the crypt, it became apparent as to what she was struggling with. Holding onto her, similar to the way Bulma had been detained, was a warrior of possibly seven foot (or more) in height, with an impressive mane of thick, black hair, trailing right the way down his back. Even from a distance, Bulma wanted to feel how soft his hair was. He was smirking at the dishevelled, struggling Chichi, amused by her fruitless exertions to escape.

"Now, that's a dumb thing to do," he said, shaking his head stoically.

"You let me go," Chichi said, scowling and trying to rip her arm out of its socket. "She's my_ friend_."

"Friend," he sneered, the words dripping from his mouth like an unsavoury flavour, but he let her go—allowed her to go to her friend.

At first Chichi scrambled to the floor, clawing at the dirt to get back up, until Bulma met her half way, bringing her into a desperate embrace. Feeling another human was blissful. Chichi smelled like home, even despite not having been there for God knows how long, but it was real. Bulma just knew it. She gripped onto the back of Chichi's head, pulling her closer, feeling how frail and brittle her body had become, her hips digging into Bulma's sides. Again, she was quick to notice that both Chichi and her warrior were minus the clothing and footwear Vegeta and she had been provided.

So it was true—the Orling only favoured Bulma.

"I'm so happy you're alive. It's been awful," she said, sobbing into Bulma's hair.

Bulma closed her eyes, forcing back the tears, when it occurred to her that Chichi and her warrior couldn't possibly have come into contact with any other team, if she and Vegeta already had five Dragon Balls. A bitterness resided in her veins at that thought. Chichi hadn't been through even a shred of the hell Bulma had. Had Chichi been subjected to having another human being's blood rain over her, while plunging a rock into their head? She couldn't have.

Bulma pulled back, looking into her friend's wide, watery eyes, ready to tell her how she felt, when a gruff voice bellowed not too far beside them both.

"Prince Vegeta, you're looking just as shiny as before we were dumped into this heaping pile of shit. What's your secret?" the taller warrior said, folding his arms, setting his legs shoulder width apart.

Bulma looked back to Vegeta, who was mirroring his actions. "I keep myself clean," he said, shrugging.

It was like watching an old western film. The wind sending balls of tumble weed in between the warriors' paths, the distance whistle of rustling blades of grass, the cold silence between it all. Bulma held Chichi tighter as they both witnessed the scene unravel, the scene which would potentially kill either one of them.

Both warriors took a fighting stance, digging their heels into the ground. In a moment, an entire team could be wiped away forever. Chichi could die. Why would Vegeta do that? He wouldn't, would he? Bulma's body shook with adrenalin. She itched to dive in and separate the two, but what use could she be, really? The fight certainly would be cut short if she decided to jump into the line of fire.

"So, what now, huh?" the other warrior said nonchalantly, cocking his head.

Poised to run for Vegeta, Bulma loosened her grip on a whimpering Chichi, the nausea beginning to rear its head again.

'_No, Miss Briefs, let it play out.'_

She frowned, aware that Chichi was now scrutinizing her with narrowed eyes, the complexity of her friend's sudden bout of courage too much for the other woman to comprehend. Did she think Bulma had lost it entirely?

'_I can't. They're going to kill each other! I have to do something.'_

_'Be patient.'_

_'I'm not just gonna stand here and wait for either Chichi or me to die. I have to move. I have to stop them. I have to-'_

An incongruous pulsing in her temple, extricating all of her will to stand up straight, pulled her to the floor, where she didn't have time to feel the hard soil hit her wind-burnt skin, before exhaustion pulled her into a deep, subconscious state.


End file.
